


a one time thing (and other untruths)

by weezly14



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Kid Fic, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 111,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weezly14/pseuds/weezly14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She supposes the reason she tells him is the same reason she kept his phone number after all those weeks." Pregnancy has a way of throwing a wrench in one's plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at Captain Swan, or anything in this fandom, actually, so hopefully it's not terribly out of character. Enjoy!

**one.**

            She knows before she calls him but she needs to tell him before she loses her nerve and he might be an asshole who’d want to see a test with his own eyes so she doesn’t even bother taking one, just calls the number he’d programmed into her phone (that she’d ignored for weeks because she doesn’t have time for dating) (and yet—) and tries to remind herself to breathe and—

            “ _Hello?_ ”

            “Killian?”

            She hopes her voice isn’t shaking.

            “ _Swan._ ”

            He sounds pleased, if a little surprised.

            “We need to talk.”

            No point beating around the bush here.

            “ _Everything all right, love?_ ”

            She squeezes her eyes shut because _God_ , she liked him and he was nice and he actually sounds concerned even though she blew him off and he’s going to hate her, probably, but if things were different—

 But it’s like a band-aid, right? Just gotta pull it off.

            “I think I’m pregnant.”

\---

            She doesn’t say anything to Mary Margaret, just asks her if she can watch Henry for a couple hours because she has stuff to take care of, and Mary Margaret must pick up on something because all she does is give her a concerned look and a, “Of course I can watch Henry.”

            Henry suspects nothing but he’s a kid, so. He gives her a hug and a smile before he goes and she smiles at him fondly and resists the urge to rest her hand on her stomach and what is she gonna do, what’s this gonna do to _him_ , but she manages to keep it together long enough to shut the door behind them.

            As soon as they’re gone (and she’s calmed down a bit) she runs across the street to the liquor store and buys two damned tests for good measure, and then proceeds to pace around her living room, waiting for him to show up.

            He’d taken it surprisingly well, not asking if it was his (because _obviously_ , why else would she be calling _him_ ), just asking if she was sure (pretty sure but not exactly) and if she wanted to meet up.

            (“I haven’t taken a test yet. I thought you might—”

            “ _Yeah, that’s—”_

“I mean, I’m pretty sure—”

            “ _I’ll be there_ ,” he’d said, the _with you_ implied.)

            So now here she is, waiting for this guy she met _once_ to show up so they can take a pregnancy test and find out if they’re stuck with each other for the next 18 or so years.

            She’s never felt so stupid.

            She’s a mother, for God’s sake. She has a _child_ , she has _responsibilities_ —how could she let herself do something so _stupid_? What will she tell Henry? And her friends and—God, _Neal_ will be such a pain in the ass about this.

            But before she can panic further there’s a knock at the door and she takes a deep breath before answering—not that it does much good because one look at him practically knocks the air out of her again.

            She sort of forgot, in the throes of _this is stupid_ and _I can’t date right now_ and _fuck I’m late,_ how attractive he was. There was a _reason_ she’d been to drawn to him that night, why she’d gone home with him, why she’d been so tempted to call him, why she hadn’t deleted his number all together.

            He smiles at her, and the knot in her chest hasn’t loosened any but it’s easier, somehow, now that he’s here.

            “Emma,” he says.

            “Hi. Uh, come in,” she tells him, opening the door wider and stepping aside so he can enter. He ducks his head slightly as he walks in and she closes the door behind him with a sigh.

            “Thanks for coming,” she says quietly, shoving her hands in her pockets, and he nods.

            “Of course.” He makes a motion like he wants to reach out but he stops himself. She can’t tell if she’s glad for it or disappointed. “Whatever happens, I assure you, you won’t be alone in this.”

            And the sincerity in his voice in killing her.

            She nods quickly, blinking back tears. (She must be pregnant, why else would she be so weepy over—well, not nothing, but still—)

            “Have you taken a test yet?” he asks tentatively. She shakes her head, avoiding his eyes.

            “No, I—”

            _I wanted to wait._

_I couldn’t buy a test with my kid around._

_I was scared._

            He seems to understand because he simply grabs the bag from the coffee table and hands it to her.

            “Ready when you are.”

            She’s not ready, and he probably isn’t either, but they don’t really have the luxury of putting this off.

            She leads him down the hall to the bathroom and he waits outside the door and it’s awkward, the whole situation is awkward but she’s too nervous to be fussed, and he’s being—honestly, she’s surprised by how well he’s handling the entire situation, how kind and not an asshole he’s been. After Neal and the few dates she’d been on in the past couple of years she’d assumed she had terrible taste, but so far, at least, Killian doesn’t seem to be so bad. She could’ve done a lot worse, she knows. That thought is almost comforting.

            She opens the door when she’s finished and tells him all they have to do now is wait. He nods and moves past her, taking a seat on the edge of the bathtub, and she joins him.

            “I’d hoped you’d call,” he says after what feels like forever, though is probably only thirty seconds.

            “I wanted to,” she breathes. “I just thought it would be too complicated.”

            He snorts, and she can’t help but grin.

            “How old is he, again?” he asks, nodding toward the Spiderman towel on the rack. She can’t be sure if he remembers (because of course she told him she had a son, that’s usually one of the first things she tells guys because it’s usually enough to scare them off—not that it had put him off much, if at all) or if he’s just putting the pieces together.

            “Nine. He’ll be ten in a few months.”

            “Henry, wasn’t it?”

            She nods. So he did remember. Her heart clenches.

            “And his father?”

            “He’s not around much.” She pauses. “It’s been over for a long time.” She bites her lip. “What am I gonna tell them?”

            He reaches for her hand then and her first instinct is to yank it away but she doesn’t. It’s comforting, and she needs that right now. She needs someone to hold her hand and tell her it’s going to be okay because everything about this feels like it’s _not_.

            It was completely coincidental that Neal happened to call up that weekend and offer to take Henry—she’d already told Mary Margaret that she wouldn’t be able to make it to David’s birthday, but suddenly she _could_ , so she went to the bar to meet them, got to spend time with Mary Margaret and Ruby and everyone, got to be an adult for once, and that’s when she met him.

            He played hockey with David at the community center, was new to the area, ex-Navy. There were a few of David’s hockey buddies there that night, but Killian was the one to catch her eye. And it was so unlike her, to go home with someone she’d just met, but it was—it felt different with him, somehow.

            When she woke up the next morning, though, she was singing a different tune. Not because she regretted it, but because she had a son and a life and no time to be dating—should’ve been past one night stands, anyway, and yet—

She’d tried to sneak out before he woke up (and _God_ , how much had she regressed) but of course he woke up. Of course he asked her to stay.

            “It was a one time thing,” she’d said, but he put his number in her phone anyway. Just in case she changed her mind.

            She hadn’t realized she’d be using his number anyway.

            Hadn’t known _why_.

            “You’ll figure it out,” he says, breaking her out of her thoughts. “And you won’t be alone.”

            She squeezes his hand because she doesn’t trust herself to speak.

            The minutes tick by.

            “Is it time yet?” he asks.

            “Probably.”

            Neither of them moves.

            “Do you want me to check it?”

            She nods and he releases her hand and stands, moving across the small space to the sink where the test is sitting. He glances at it, picks up the box to read the instructions, glances at it again.

            She already knows the answer, this is merely a formality, she knows—

            “It’s positive.”

            She’s pregnant.

\---

            She chucks the test in the trash and then takes the trash out. Her hands are shaking and she hasn’t said a word to him and _fuck_. She knew, but it still—

            It’s real, now.

            They go back to the living room and this is the fun part, this is where they talk—really talk—about what happens next.

            She missed this part with Neal, he was already gone by the time she knew—he missed all this, the panic and the flicker of joy and the _what the fuck am I doing_ and everything else.

            But Killian is here, sitting across from her, taking all his cues from her, and she’s glad for the support. Has no idea, honestly, what kind of a mess she’d be if he’d taken this differently. Finding out she was pregnant with Henry had been scary enough, but this is terrifying for a whole different set of reasons. She’s glad Killian is here. (And the level of comfort she feels with him teriffies her for completely different reasons.)

            “So, what do we do now?” he asks.

            “I’ll make a doctor’s appointment, just get it confirmed, make sure everything’s okay.” She takes a deep breath. “What do you want to do about it?”

            “Whatever you want,” he says quickly, as if he’s rehearsed this.

            “You have no preference. Really.” Because he’s almost _too_ good about this. Either he’s a really good guy or—she’s not sure, exactly what the alternative is, but she knows better than to just blindly trust anyone.

            He shakes his head.

            “I’ll support you in whatever you decide to do.”

            She narrows her eyes at him, searching his face for any hint of a lie. He’s telling the truth, she decides, and that’s good, because she’s not getting rid of it. She can’t. She almost gave Henry up for adoption (abortion was never on the table) but she couldn’t go through with it then, much less now. It may complicate things, it may not be ideal, but she—she wants it. She wants this baby. She just hopes he does, too. Or that he’ll bow out now. Send a check every month. She wouldn’t begrudge him that choice. It’s not like they know each other, it’s not like they’d been dating.

            “So if what I want is to keep it—” she starts but he cuts her off.

            “Then I’d be on board with that.”

            “Okay,” she says slowly. “And what exactly do you mean by ‘on board’? Like, on board as in paying child support for the next 18 years, or—”

            “I’d want to be involved. And yes, I’d take on the financial responsibility.”

            “Because this is a huge thing. Like, this is a baby. And it’s not just a few years, it’s forever—diapers and doctor’s appointments and dentists and school supplies and—”

            “I know.”

            Does he, though? He hadn’t told her about kids (and she assumes he would have, once she revealed that she had a son), had no photos of children (or potential significant others) in his apartment. She’d checked. And a baby—a child—is a _huge_ responsibility.

            “And you’d be up for that?” she asks.

            He nods.

            “Because if you’re not you can walk away, right now.”

            “That’s bad form, love.”

            _God_ , if this is just some misplaced _honor_ thing she’s so done. She resists rolling her eyes but just barely.

            “It would be _bad form_ for you to decide in five years that you’re over it. If you wanna be involved—”

            “I’m all in, Emma. I won’t leave you to raise this child alone and I won’t shirk my responsibilities.”

            She nods, not quite believing him. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

            “Look, my mother died when I was young and my father ran off even before that. I won’t do that to any child of mine, rest assured,” he tells her.

            Her chest tightens. She’s carrying this man’s child and she barely knows anything about him. Just like he barely knows anything about her. It’s stupid to trust anything he says—she barely knows him, and it’s _so_ early, and yet—

            And yet she does.

            “Okay.”

            “Okay?”

            She nods.

            “This isn’t ideal, but—we can make this work, all right?”

            She nods again.

            He sighs heavily and leans back against her couch. She takes a moment to take him in. Jeans and a plaid shirt and a leather jacket. Disheveled hair (though he’s been running his hands through it so it’s probably not usually this messy). She wonders if he’s been as anxious since she called him as she’s been. She’s barely been sleeping. He looks tired, too.

            “How are you feeling?” she asks him. She may be freaking out but she’s already gone through the whole pregnancy thing before. A week ago he was a single guy living in Boston and now he’s having a baby by a one-night stand.

            “I’ll get back to you on that,” he replies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

            “Sorry,” she says, because she feels like she should say it. It’s not her fault, really—it takes two, after all—but his life is radically different now and it’s partially her doing, so.

            He shakes his head, sitting up and leaning toward her again. “I don’t regret it.” He drops his gaze to his hands. “I’m the one who should be apologizing, anyway.”

            (But they’d used protection so it really is just an accident. No one’s fault.)

            “Don’t,” she says.

            She takes his hand and he meets her gaze.

            “I know it’s kind of fucked up circumstances,” and he raises an eyebrow at her there and she rolls her eyes, because yes, that’s an understatement, “but I don’t regret it, either.”

            And she’s surprised to find it’s the truth.

            “So you won’t hate me if I admit I’m sort of excited?” he asks with a small, tentative smile. She shakes her head, a smile of her own creeping onto her face.

            “No, because I sort of am, too.”

            His smile widens and he looks down at their twined fingers and her heart is racing but it’s not nerves, it’s not panic. She _likes_ him. And they’ve done everything completely backwards but she likes Killian and as anxious as this situation is making her she’s not upset that it means having to be around him. And the fact that he seems to share that feeling makes the knot in her chest loosen somewhat.

            Makes her feel like she can get through this.

            Which is not at _all_ how she felt when she was pregnant with Henry.

            _Henry._

            She pulls her hand away slowly.

            “It’s not just us, though,” she tells him, and she hates to put a damper on things when the air had become so much lighter but she has to. She’s already a mother. She has Henry to think of, too. “You say you wanna be involved and that’s awesome, I’m all for that, but I already have a son. So—me and him, we’re like a packaged deal, and I’m not saying you have to be his dad—you definitely don’t, that definitely not what I’m saying, but just—you being around for all of this, the pregnancy and just in general, you’re gonna have to be around my kid, too. Are you gonna be okay with that?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “I was interested in you before, Swan,” he tells her with a smile that makes her heart beat faster. “I knew then that you were a mother, that if anything were to happen between us your son would be involved.” He shrugs. “We’ll figure it out as we go. But this won’t scare me away.”           

            She wants to believe him, wants to trust him. He doesn’t _seem_ to be lying (and she’s always been good at telling when people are) but she’s still cautious, even as a flicker of relief fills her.

            “When will you tell him?”

            Just as soon as the relief washed over her the anxiety rushes back.

            “I don’t know.”

            He nods.

            “Should we—when should we see each other again?” he asks.

            “I’ll call you after my doctor’s appointment?” she suggests. He doesn’t seem entirely pleased with that answer. “What?”

            “I’d like to go, if it’s all the same to you,” he admits, scratching his ear and looking at her with a small smile.

            “To my doctor’s appointment?” She tries to keep the incredulity out her voice but isn’t sure she succeeds on that front. He shrugs like it’s not a big deal but seriously?

            _God_ , she likes him.

            “Okay. Well, I’ll call you when I schedule it, and let you know. And we can figure it out from there.”

            “Sounds good,” he tells her, smiling. She never would’ve asked him to go with her—she made it through nine months of doctors appointments on her own before, she knows she could do it again. But it’s nice, knowing that for the first one, at least, she’ll have someone by her side.  

            She wants to say something else but she can’t find the words. All she knows is she’s terrified and excited and has no idea what to do next and she _likes_ him, but if she had no business dating _before_ then now it’s definitely—

            Dating Killian is definitely off the table. She’ll be too busy carrying his child to worry about that and if _that_ isn’t just—

            But before she can say or do anything the door is opening and her son is bursting into the apartment, Mary Margaret close behind him, shooting her an apologetic look. She jumps to her feet to greet them and notices that Killian does the same, shoving his hands into his pockets.

            “Hey, guys,” she greets.

            “Mom, look what I got!” Henry exclaims, shoving a heavy book with _Once Upon a Time_ written across it in fancy script. “Mary Margaret took me to this bookstore and she got this for me, isn’t it cool?”

            “Super cool, kid, I hope you said thank you,” she says, and he nods. She glances over at Mary Margaret, who’s looking between her and Killian with a confused look and Emma gives her a look that says _later_. She ruffles Henry’s hair and pulls him into her side, turning her attention back to Killian. This is a big deal, probably, even if it doesn’t seem like it now, but at least now there will be a face to a name, when she tells Henry. She’s not looking forward to that conversation. “Henry, this is my friend, Killian,” she introduces.

            “Hi,” Henry says with a smile. Killian returns it, eyes soft.

            “Hello, lad. Nice to meet you.”

            “You, too,” her son responds.

            “Killian plays hockey with David,” Emma supplies needlessly.

            “Cool.”

            “Do you like hockey?” Killian asks. Henry nods.

            “Mom keeps saying we’ll go to one of David’s games but we haven’t yet.”

            “Way to throw me under the bus, kid,” she says, and Killian grins.

            “Where are you priorities, Swan?” he teases. She rolls her eyes.

            “Yeah, yeah, we’ll go one day.”

            He’s still grinning at her and she’s smiling at him now, too, and Mary Margaret is probably dying to know what’s going on and her son is here and—

            “Well, I should probably get going,” Mary Margaret says. She gives Henry a hug and then Emma, whispering _call me_ before she pulls away. She smiles at Killian. “It was nice to see you again, Killian.”

            “You too, Mary Margaret. Give David my regards,” he says with a tight smile.

            David’s gonna be _pissed_ when he finds out. Killian seems to have realized it, too.

            “Bye! Thanks for the book!” Henry says. Mary Margaret nods and smiles once more before letting herself out.

            And then there were three.

            “Henry, why don’t you go put your book in your room,” she says. He nods.

            “Okay. It was nice meeting you, Killian,” he says.

            “You too, lad.”

            Once he’s gone she turns her attention back to Killian.

            “I should probably get going,” he says quietly.

            “Yeah, probably.”

            “You’ll call me?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Good.”

            She walks him the few steps to the door and opens it, stepping aside so he can leave.

            “Thanks, for coming today and for—just—thanks,” she tells him, and he smiles softly at her before dropping his gaze to his feet.

            “Thank you for telling me,” he says quietly. She chest tightens.

            “Of course.”

            She knows what he’s saying, though. She could’ve just as easily said nothing. Could’ve just taken care of it and he never would’ve known. Could’ve kept him completely out of the loop. She’d thought about it certainly, but—

            She supposes the reason she told him is the same reason she kept his number all those weeks.

“I’ll see you soon?” she asks, and he nods.

            “If you need anything—”

            “I have your number.”

            “Right.”

            They stand there awkwardly for a moment before he moves closer, pulling her into a hug, and she sighs into it, her arms wrapping around him as he hugs her tighter. She breathes in deep the scent of him, after-shave and leather, warm and solid and real. It should scare her, probably, how comfortable it is—how comforting he is, just this, his presence, his arms around her. They spent one night together and now they’ll be part of each others’ lives for as long as this child growing inside her is alive and it should be terrifying, and it _is_ , but somehow—

            “Goodbye, Emma,” he says after he releases her.

            “Bye, Killian.”

            Somehow it’s okay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I’ve never been pregnant, only watched others in my life go through pregnancy, so most of this stuff is coming from what I’ve gleaned from various Google searches. Apologies for inaccuracies.

**two.**

It took all his will power not to ask David about her at the next game. He wanted to give her space, respect her choices, but he also wanted to see her again. He’d asked her how she knew David that night and she’d waved her hand, something about how Mary Margaret was an old friend so she’d known David for a while, too. He’d gotten the feeling, though, from watching them interact at the bar, that David was sort of an older brother figure to her, Mary Margaret like a sister.

            She hadn’t told him much about herself, admittedly, but he found he could read her pretty well just the same. She had a son, she’d said. Henry. She hadn’t told him an age but he guessed around 8 or 9. She didn’t wear a ring, had come to the party alone, and was returning his flirting, so he gathered that the father wasn’t in the picture, or if he was, barely.

            He figured she’d been young when she had her boy. He figured she’d had her heart broken by the father. He wasn’t sure how he knew these things, but it just—it seemed right. He assumed she had no family, that she was close to, at least. Again, a hunch.

            He knew that she told him about her son as a kind of test. He knew she was gauging his reaction, probably expecting him to make some excuse to leave her company. He knew that becoming involved with a single mother would be complicated, but he found he didn’t really care about complicated. He was drawn to her in a way he hadn’t ever been drawn to anyone, not even—

            He wanted to get to know her. He wanted to _try_.

            So he tried not to let show how crushed he was at the words “one time thing.”

            And he resolved _not_ to ask David about her.

            She had his number. He could only hope she’d change her mind. Give him a chance.

\---

            He’d hoped she would call him, but this wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

\---

            He’s not proud of it, but he’s looking forward to seeing her far more than is appropriate for the circumstances, probably. He _likes_ her, he knows this. He wanted a chance with her and now he has—he has something, at least.

            She’d told him she hadn’t taken a test, so it’s entirely possible that she’s not pregnant, but she also seems pretty sure. He trusts that she probably knows herself well enough to know if this is actually something. And he’ll admit, he’s sort of glad she hasn’t taken a test yet because it means he gets to be there with her, and maybe it’s not perfect circumstances, or even great ones, but he—

            He doesn’t want to be a dead beat dad, doesn’t want to be absentee father, doesn’t want to be weekend dad or holiday dad or a card every few months, phone calls every few weeks dad. If this is real, if this is happening, he wants to be there as much as he can, as much as she’ll let him. And as far as he’s concerned, that starts now.

            So, yes, he’s glad he’ll get to sit with her and wait for the test results.

            And, yes, he’s looking forward to seeing her.

            She seems less excited by his presence, when she opens the door to greet him, but he supposes that’s to be expected. And he wants to reach out for her, he wants to hug her and—but he’s not sure that would be welcome, now. He supposes perhaps they should keep the physical contact to a minimum for the time being, so he keeps his hands at his sides, fingers itching to touch her.

            He looks around the room as she closes the door, taking in the pictures of her and her son, the fleece superhero blanket on the couch, the DVDs and video games by the TV. The apartment is lived in, and clearly inhabited by a young boy.

            “Thanks for coming,” she says, and he nods. Guesses that the boy isn’t here.

            “Of course.” He almost reaches for her again but he stops himself. She looks anxious, and terrified, and she must hate him. _He_ sort of hates himself for this, honestly, because chance to see her again though this may be, this is also possibly a _child_ , and that’s complicated enough on its own, and—

“Whatever happens, I assure you, you won’t be alone in this,” he says after a moment.  

            He hopes she believes him.

\---

            He hadn’t meant to say it, not really, but it’s true.

            He’d wanted to see her again, had wanted her to call. Maybe he says it to assure her that this isn’t entirely unwelcome. That his interest wasn’t confined to one night.

            He’s not sure what sorts of guys she’d dated before—he assumes she _has_ dated, though probably not seriously—but he gets the feeling that none were a shining example of the male species. If the lack of a male presence (other than David) in the photos littering her house is any indication, Henry’s father isn’t involved much, and has probably given her low expectations regarding his reaction to all this.

            He wants to ask, about Henry and Henry’s father, about what happened, when that relationship ended, how that pregnancy went. But it seems like too much, too soon, and they don’t know, for sure, if she’s pregnant, and he doesn’t want to pry, but he wants her to know that he _will_ be around. He won’t leave her to do this alone, and it wasn’t just a one night stand to him, and his interest in her was more than—that when he’d asked her to stay and given her his phone number, he’d done it for more than just casual reasons.

            He’s not sure he articulated any of that, though.

            Emma carries herself as someone who’s been hurt, as someone who’s had to be strong for a long time, but she’s starting to unravel. She loves her son, he knows, and this is complicated _especially_ because she has him to think about. He has no idea what to say to her, how to comfort her, and while touching her may be a bad idea, he can’t stop himself from reaching out and taking her hand.

            She doesn’t pull away and he sighs in relief internally.

            He’s not sure how long they sit there in silence but eventually he offers to check the test.

            It’s positive, but he doesn’t think either of them are surprised by it.

            She quickly moves into task mode, disposing of the test and the trash, probably so Henry doesn’t find it, and he just sort of watches her, heart beating frantically.

            She’s _pregnant._

            He’s going to be a _father_.

            And he’s known for days, has had time to process this news, this possibility, but nothing prepares you for the moment you _know_ , without a doubt—nothing prepares you for the waiting and the checking the test and the seeing the two lines and—and just the knowledge, the way it slams in your gut—

            He’s going to have a _child_. A real, breathing, living child. Half him and half her and he’s glad she’s not paying much attention to him right now because he’s barely holding it together and he wants to be able to support _her_ in this, and he can’t do that if he’s falling apart.

            But he’s going to be a _dad_.

            And underneath the terror and the guilt for doing this to her, the unmistakable _what the fuck am I doing_ and _what if I fuck it up_ , he can’t deny the sliver of joy, small though it is.

            (And growing.)

            Because he’s going to be a dad. And he’d all but given up on that happening for him. He lost everyone he was close to, it seemed. After—after Milah, he’d given up on finding love. With her, he’d imagined maybe, one day, having a family, but the possibility of that had disappeared when she did, and he—well, he just moved on. Tried to.

            Meeting Emma had been like waking up.

            And now this and he—he doesn’t regret it.

            (But she doesn’t either, so—maybe there’s hope, yet.)

\---

            David is going to _kill_ him.

\---

            He wanders around aimlessly after he leaves her apartment. He hadn’t meant to stay long enough to meet her son—and he could tell that she hadn’t expected them back so soon—but he’s glad he at least got to meet the boy. He’s not sure when she’s going to tell him, but he doesn’t want to boy to hate him. And maybe if the boy at least knows who he is—

            He doesn’t know. He just—he just wants to do right by her. By them.

            And it’s ridiculous, but he goes by the library and picks up a stack of books on pregnancy. Belle, the librarian, knows him well by now—he comes in enough for her to know him by name, and that probably says something about the state of his life—and she merely raises an eyebrow at his selection. He gives her what he hopes is a charming grin but offers nothing else. She doesn’t ask, in any case, and he’s almost grateful.

            But there’s a small part of him that wishes he had someone—anyone—to share this news with.

\---

            He has her number now—had programmed it into his phone right after she’d called him—and it takes all his will power not to text her or call her over the next two days. She said she would call him, and he doesn’t want to overwhelm her, but he also wants her to know he means it when he says he wants to be involved, and more often that he’s proud of his thumb hovers over the call button but he resists, somehow.

            David doesn’t punch him or give him any dirty looks at the next game, so he assumes she hasn’t told him. Mary Margaret smiles at him in a way that tells him she knows, though, and he wants to ask how Emma is but he stops himself.

            She’ll call. She said she’d call.

            In the mean time, he reads his books and takes notes and looks ahead at his calendar. He guesses January, but they’ll find out for sure when they see the doctor.

            (She’ll call, won’t she?)

\---

            “ _Hey Killian. Uh, sorry for not calling sooner. Work and stuff got busy. But, uh, if you’re still interested, I’ve got an appointment on Tuesday. 8:30. I know it’s early, and you might have work, so if you can’t make it I totally understand, but. Anyway. Uh, call me back when you get the chance. Bye._ ”

            He listens to the message at least three times before marking the date on his calendar and calling her back.

            Of _course_ he’ll be there.

            She picks up on the third ring.

            “ _Hello_?”

            “Hey,” he greets. “I got your message.”

            “ _Oh, good. So—”_

“I’ll be there.”

            “ _You’re sure?_ ”

            “Positive.” He fiddles with the pen in his hand. “Should we meet there, or—”

            “ _Oh_ , _yeah, probably._ ” She gives him the address, which he writes down on the notepad he keeps on the fridge.

            Silence falls over them again.

            “Well, I’ll see you then,” he says finally.

            “ _Yeah, see you._ ” She pauses but he doesn’t hang up just yet. “ _I haven’t told anyone yet, by the way. Just Mary Margaret._ ”

            “Right.”

            “ _Have you?_ ”

            “No one to tell,” he says, and he immediately regrets it. It’s too much, too soon, too—

            “ _I don’t have many people, either._ ”

            His chest tightens.

            “Anyway, the books say you should wait three months or so,” he says.

            “ _Books?_ ”

            He cringes.

            “I’ve been reading up on all this.”

            “ _Pregnancy._ ”

            “Aye.”

            “ _Scared yet?_ ” And he can hear the smile in her voice.

            “Terrified,” he says, relaxing a little. She laughs, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed that. She’d laughed a lot—he’d made her laugh, that night. He forgot how much he liked the sound.

            “ _Well, try not to let it freak you out_ too _much,_ ” she tells him. “ _See you Tuesday?_ ”

            “I’ll be there.”

            She hangs up then, and he puts his phone down, feeling lighter.

\---

            She’d called him on Friday, and the days that follow seem to drag on endlessly.

            But when Tuesday arrives he feels woefully unprepared. Not that there’s anything _to_ prepare for—it’s a doctor’s visit, not an exam—but he’s still anxious as he makes his way to the doctor’s office. He’s early, so he waits outside, hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet.

            She looks almost surprised to see him and he tries not to take it personally as he smiles at her. He’s going for reassuring but not sure he succeeds.

            “Hey,” she says.

            “Morning,” he returns.

            “You’re early.”

            He shrugs. “I’m a punctual person.”

            She snorts and he grins, holding open the door for her. She gives him a look as she passes him and he—

            He _likes_ her.

            The waiting room is mostly empty, though there are two other women at varying stages of pregnancy already there. Emma checks in with the receptionist and then sits next to him in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, clipboard in hand with forms to fill out. He picks up a magazine for want of something to do— _Parents Weekly_ —and tries to focus on the words. He hadn’t even realized he was jiggling his leg up and down until he feels her hand on his knee, settling him. He looks over at her and she smiles. He can’t help but smile back.

            “Okay?” she asks.

            He nods. “You?”

            She nods, too, before going back to her forms. He glances over every so often to see what she’s writing. Occasionally she asks him a question, like his middle name (doesn’t have one) and blood type (A positive) and for any genetic conditions or other diseases that run in his family (none that he’s aware of).

            When she’s finished she returns the clipboard and papers to the receptionist before returning to her seat beside him.

“Emma Swan?” a nurse calls not a moment later, and they both stand. He reaches for her hand without thinking and she glances at him again, expression tender, before turning away. The nurse nods at them before leading them down the hall and he lets Emma lead _him_ and the gravity of the situation situates itself firmly on his chest.

            _Breathe_.

            The nurse ushers them into an exam room and tells them that the doctor will be with them in a moment. Emma releases his hand to sit on the bench in the center of the room; he shoves his hands in his pockets.

            “You can sit, you know,” she says with a small smile.

            “I prefer to stand.”

            “Suit yourself.”

            He wanders around, taking in the various infographs on the walls, the cluster of pamphlets by the sink.

            “Are you always this fidgety?” Emma asks him after a pause.

            He shrugs.

            “So—” he begins but the door opens then and the doctor walks in, consulting a clipboard.

            “Emma Swan?”

            She nods. The doctor smiles before turning his attention to Killian.

            “And you must be Dad.”

            His insides twist and he nods.

            “Well, let’s take a look at your baby, shall we?”

\---

            He probably should’ve sat down, honestly, because as soon as the images fill the screen he’s lost. And it doesn’t even look like anything yet, just this tiny thing the doctor points out as “That’s your baby” and he feels like he’s drowning and it’s too much, it’s too—it’s so—

            And he’s not sure if he grabs her hand or she grabs his but regardless they’re grasping each other’s hands and looking at the ultrasound and maybe _awe_ is a good word to sum up how he’s feeling, maybe that’s it, but whatever it is—

            The rest of the appointment flies by. They’re asked a lot of questions. There are more tests. It becomes clear to the doctor quite early that not only are they not married, they’re barely even dating, but the doctor’s a good man and he doesn’t give them a hard time about it.

            And Emma’s brilliant. He supposes because she’s done all this before, but she answers the questions and asks her own and he mostly just feels useless, standing there and trying to remember to breathe because he’s going to have a _child_ and that child is currently growing inside Emma and he _saw_ it, saw the little bean that is his son or daughter. _God_.

            They leave with two copies of the ultrasound, vitamins for Emma, lots of pamphlets for him, and a due date.

            January 4.

            (He’ll have to buy a new calendar so he can mark the date.)

\---

            He takes her hand as they leave the doctor’s office and she doesn’t pull away, which he takes as a good sign.

            “So how are you feeling?” she asks.

            “Overwhelmed,” he admits. She smiles.

            “Yeah, same.”

            “Was it like this with Henry?”

            She shakes her head, expression darkening.

            “No. I was 17 and alone and terrified. This is practically a walk in the park.”

            He’d known—assumed she’d had Henry young, but that young—

            He squeezes her hand and she smiles at him again, softer this time.

            “Thanks for coming. That had to be pretty boring.”

            “He never did any of this with you, did he?” he asks suddenly. “Henry’s father.”

            It’s a stupid question, he knows the answer, and if he knows anything about Emma it’s that asking personal questions too soon makes her shut down faster than anything, but every time—she keeps _thanking_ him for doing the sorts of things that any decent man would do, almost apologizing for it, as if she’d dragged him along rather than him being a willing participant.

            He’s fully expecting her to yank her hand away and not call him for a few weeks but she doesn’t. He’s expecting her face to shutter closed but instead it remains open, expression sad.

            “No, he didn’t.”

            He doesn’t say anything. Gives her the space to say more if she wants.

            When she doesn’t say anything after a pause he nods slightly. He can be patient. He won’t push her.

            “Walk me to my car?” she asks quietly.

            “Of course.”

            She doesn’t let go of his hand.

            “So, are you going to tell people yet?” he asks as they walk.

            “Probably. I suppose I’ll have to tell David sometime,” she says with a put upon sigh, and he smirks.

            “Give me fair warning, all right? So I know if I should expect him to attack me at our next game.”

            She smiles.

            “Your parents?” he asks lightly. She shakes her head.

            “Foster kid.”

            He feels like the more he finds out about Emma Swan, the more he wants to drop what he’s doing and just hold her, take care of her, soothe the pain she must carry in her heart. But they’re not quite there yet so he doesn’t pull her in for a hug, as much as he wants to.

            “And Henry?”

            “Soon.” She sighs. “Neal, too. That’s Henry’s dad.”

            “I know it may only make things worse, but if you want me present when you tell anyone—”

            She hugs him, then, cutting him off, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer. He feels her bury her face in his neck and there’s a dampness there and—

            “Sorry,” she says pulling back. “Hormones.” She wipes at her eyes, cheeks pink, and he steps closer and brushes her tears with his thumb.

            “You don’t have to apologize, love.”

            That sets her off and he pulls her to him again, rubbing her back and whispering reassurances in her ear.

            “I don’t wanna tell Henry yet,” she mumbles. “There’s still a chance we could—just, a few more weeks. Once it’s safer.”

            His heart clenches.

            ( _“You’re eight weeks along. You can start telling people but the chance of miscarriage is much higher prior to the twelfth week.”_ )

            “Of course, whatever you want to do.”

            He desperately doesn’t want to think about miscarriage, desperately wants them _not_ to be another statistic.  

            He presses a kiss to the top of her head and it’s too much, probably—the boundaries between them too undefined, the line hazy. They know each other in the most intimate way but now he’s not sure how he’s allowed to touch her—if he’s allowed to touch her. Because she didn’t call him because she wanted him; she called him because she’s pregnant by him. So he braces himself for her to pull away, but again she surprises him, and doesn’t.

            (He doesn’t believe in love at first sight but he knows he could fall in love with Emma Swan. Is possibly well on his way there now. And he has no idea where he stands with her.)

            Eventually she pulls away, slowly (reluctantly?). She takes a deep, shuddering breath and wipes her eyes again.

            “I think I needed that,” she says, smiling slightly.

            “It’s a lot to process.”

            Which is a _huge_ understatement, but focusing on her and how she’s doing is staving off his growing panic so he’ll take it.

            She nods, composing herself further.

            “So,” he begins, unsure, sticking his hands in his pockets. “When will I see you again?”

            “There’s another doctor’s appointment in a month,” she says, and he nods.

            “And before then?”

            She shrugs. “I dunno. I guess we’ll sort of play it by ear.”

            “Okay,” he sighs.

            “I’ll call you,” she promises. He smiles.

            “I look forward to it.”

            He hopes she knows he means it.

            She steps closer and hugs him again and he likes this, likes that hugging is at least a thing they can do. It ends far quicker than he’d like it to but he lets her go, watches her get in her car. Waves as she drives off.

            She’s all he can think of for the rest of the day, as he goes into work and picks up food on his way home, flipping through the channels and leafing through _What to Expect When You’re Expecting._ Her smile and the way her eyes light up, the sound of her laugh, how she felt pressed up against him, the smell of her shampoo. Her and the baby (ultrasound photo placed proudly on the fridge) and—

            _Fuck_. He’s falling for her. 


	3. Chapter 3

            She can’t remember when Wednesday lunch became a Thing but it did, some time, and she can barely remember what she used to do with her Wednesday lunch breaks before she spent them with Mary Margaret and Ruby, trading stories about their weeks and the men in their life and their jobs. Emma didn’t have many friends growing up, her childhood something of a study in movement, and then she had Neal, and then that fell apart but she had Henry. Though, as the 18 year old single mother she was hardly invited to the potlucks and teas and shit that the other moms on the playground organized. Mary Margaret and Ruby were really the first real, good friends she’d had.

            And normally she looks forward to their lunches because they’re her family, for all intents and purposes. They’re her people, her support system, and she’s gonna need them but she’s gonna have to _tell_ them and the prospect of that is just—

            So she walks in and there’s a weight that’s settled itself in her stomach and maybe that’s just her new constant state of being, maybe she just needs to get used to it, but she doesn’t know how she’ll be able to get through the meal pretending everything’s fine, and she _also_ has no idea how to tell Ruby.

            Or how to face Mary Margaret.

            Who’d been understanding, of course, but also wary.

            (Because of all of David’s hockey friends she had to pick Killian, the new guy none of them know very well. Why couldn’t she have picked Graham, or August? Emma’d had to remind Mary Margaret that she hadn’t exactly _planned_ any of this. She was a little unnerved by how quickly she jumped to Killian’s defense, but he’d been nothing but wonderful so far and she needed her friends to support her, not doubt the character of the person she was tied to from now on.)

            She’s the last to arrive and it’s all smiles and hugs as she sits down and they order their food and maybe she doesn’t need to worry, maybe she was overreacting, maybe—

            “So how’s it been?” Ruby asks.

            “I’m pregnant,” she blurts out, and _fuck_ , that’s not how she planned this conversation starting.

            Mary Margaret nearly chokes on her water and Ruby’s just staring at her.

            “What?”

            No turning back now.

            “Yeah, I’m—I’m pregnant. Expecting. With child.”

            “With who?”

            “Whom,” Mary Margaret corrects. Ruby ignores her.

            “You haven’t been seeing anyone in secret have you?” she demands, leaning across the table toward her with narrowed eyes, as though she might be able to sniff out the identity of the father.

            Emma takes a sip of her water— _God_ it’s hot in here, is the air not working, what—

            “Emma?” Ruby questions. Emma puts her water glass down and sighs. She feels a head ache coming on.

            “Remember Killian, from David’s party?”

            “The hot British guy?”

            Emma nods ever so slightly.

            “No way.”

            “Ruby—”

            “You’ve been sleeping with the hot British guy on David’s hockey team _and you didn’t tell us?_ ”

            “Would you lower your voice, Ruby, we’re in public,” Mary Margaret hisses. Ruby continues to ignore her, focusing solely on Emma, who wants the earth to open and swallow her whole.  

            “Not sleeping with. Slept with. Once,” she clarifies and, yeah, it sounds bad when she puts it that way but honestly the whole situation is bad and she’s been fighting off the mounting panic but laying out the whole scenario is putting it back into perspective and _fuck_ she’s _pregnant_ by a _one night stand_ and he will be around _forever_ , or at least until he gets tired of them and that—

            That—

            “When?” Ruby interrupts her thoughts.

            Emma just looks at her.

            “Oh my God.”

            “It was a one time thing—just—none of this was supposed to happen, but it did, so. Here we are,” Emma explains, somehow without visibly cringing. She picks up her water glass and finishes it off, just for something to do. She feels oddly lighter now that it’s off her chest, but now she gets to deal with their questions for the duration of the meal and she wonders if she can somehow use her pregnancy to get out of this early.

            “Have you told him?” Ruby asks.

            “Yeah.”

            “And?”

            “Yeah, how _did_ he take the news?” Mary Margaret questions. Emma narrows her eyes at her tone but Ruby’s attention has wandered.

            “Wait, you knew? Why did she know first?”

            “Because she babysat Henry when he and I met up to talk about things and they got back early and he was still there and—”

            Ruby cuts her off, apparently satisfied with what she’s heard.

            “So what’d he say?”

            Emma shrugs.

            “You know. Just—stuff.”

            “What kind of stuff? Like, is he gonna be involved, was he upset, what?”

            She shrugs again. “He’s—I dunno. He wants to be around. He came with me to my doctor’s appointment and—”

            “Really?”

            Emma glares at Mary Margaret.

            “Yes, _really_. He’s a good guy. He’s been—really great with all this.”

            Her chest tightens at the memory of falling apart in the parking lot yesterday— _God_ , was it only yesterday. And him holding her, and wiping her tears, and kissing the top of her head. He’d been so— _tender_ , and kind, and she has no idea what to do with that. No idea how to respond to this man—this man she already knows she’s attracted to, has already been with, would probably be with if not for extenuating circumstances—who has seemingly taken all this in stride, who has done nothing but hold her hand and support her since the moment he found out.

            What the _fuck_ is his deal?

            “So are you guys dating or something now?” Ruby asks.

            “No,” she responds without missing a beat. Ruby raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I’m pregnant and I have a kid and—”

            “Yeah, but the kid you’re pregnant with is his. It wouldn’t be that weird,” Ruby points out.

            “I have enough on my plate trying to figure all this out, I can’t handle a relationship on top of it all.”

            _Especially_ with him.

            “So you guys are just friends? What does he say?” Mary Margaret asks.

            Emma shrugs. “I dunno. He—I dunno. We haven’t talked about it.”

            “Is he interested?”

            ( _“I’d hoped you’d call.”_ )

            “I think so. Maybe. I don’t know. Can we change the subject now? How are things going with Victor?”

            “One last question,” Mary Margaret says, and Ruby makes an annoyed sound but doesn’t interrupt. “Does Henry know yet? Or Neal?”

            “No.”

            Mary Mararet smiles sadly. “Okay.”

\---

            _I accidentally told my friend Ruby_ , she texts him a few hours later.

            His response is almost immediate.

            _Accidentally?_

            _It just sorta slipped out._

            A pause.

            _Well, I’m pretty sure the librarian is onto me so we make quite a pair, Swan._

            She smiles, a warm feeling flooding her chest.

            _The librarian?_

            _Never let it be said that I don’t do my research._ _J_

_Tell me something you’ve found out, then._

            It takes him a few moments to respond. Then:

            _The baby is the size of a cranberry bean._

            She finds herself tearing up—these hormones are gonna be the death of her, but she manages to type out a response.

            _That small, huh?_

            _Next week it’ll be a peanut. Do you like peanuts, Swan?_

_I like ours._

            It’s a ridiculous, cheesy thing to say, and she’ll blame the pregnancy, but—

            _Me too._ _J_

\---

            Thursday night Neal calls, says he wants to take Henry for the night Friday.

            “ _I’ll pick him up from school and drop him off Saturday night sometime, that sound okay?”_

            It used to bother her, the way he’d call to _tell_ her he was going to take Henry for the afternoon or the day or the weekend, no consideration for what plans she may have had, but the visits are scattered enough that she’s just glad he’s making an effort. At least he’s seeing Henry, even if it’s inconsistent and on his terms.

            “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll let him know.”

            _“Cool. See ya Saturday, Em.”_

“Yeah, see ya.”

            The ‘Em’ thing used to bother her, too, but she’s learned to pick her battles.

            Henry’s excited to hear he gets the spend time with his dad, and her heart breaks a little because she wanted more for him. She had a shitty childhood; for a long time she hadn’t even _wanted_ kids, but when she did think about it she knew she wanted them to have what she didn’t. A stable home, a loving family.

            Neal loves him, she knows that, and she loves him—would die for her kid—but she wishes she could’ve done better by him. Wishes that Neal were a better father, that Henry could’ve grown up with two parents instead of one and a half.

            She doesn’t know yet what things will look like for this new one. The cranberry bean or peanut or whatever it is now.

            (She can’t get over the fact that he came to her appointment, that he took all those pamphlets, has been getting books from the library—she keeps waiting for the shoe to drop because he’s too good to be true.)

            She gets home from work and texts Neal to make sure he and Henry are okay—they are—before curling up on the couch and ordering Chinese.

            Her phone buzzes with a text and she assumes it’s Neal but is pleasantly surprised to find it’s _not_.

            _How’s the peanut?_

            She smiles.

            _Thought you said cranberry seed._

_Little one, in any case._

            It’s not fair, how he can do this to her, make her feel all flustered and giddy and happy with just a _text_.

            _Good_.

            A pause.

_And you?_

            She debates with herself. She could stay here with her takeout and TV, texting him, or she could suggest meeting up. Talking to him in person.

            _Thinking about getting ice cream. Cravings, you know._

_Ah, yes, I’ve read about that._

Just as she’s wondering if she should outright _ask_ him he texts:

            _Would you like company?_

            She smiles.

            _Ben and Jerry’s in twenty?_

            _See you there._

\---

            He’s already there when she arrives and _God_ , he’s attractive. She tries not to notice it but sometimes—like now—it just sort of slams her in the gut. And when he _smiles_ —and _ugh_ , what is happening to her, when did she become some sort of lovesick school girl—

            He walks up to her and she can tell he wants to hug her and she sort of loves how careful he’s being so she steps up and hugs him, breathing deep the scent of his aftershave and his skin. She’s not usually an affectionate person, not with people outside of her son or Mary Margaret and David, who are practically family. It surprises her how comfortable she feels around Killian, how easy it is to hold his hand or hug him, but she decides not to question it.

            (For now.)

            “Hi,” he whispers.

            “Hi.”

            She lets go and steps back and he’s looking at her with such fondness she has to look away.

            “So what kind of ice cream are we craving, hmm?”

            “Something with chocolate, definitely,” she responds.

            “Of course.”

            He holds the door open for her and follows her inside. They get their ice cream (he insists on paying) and go to sit outside. It’s warm out but not sweltering, just the right kind of weather for sitting outside with an ice cream cone. Summer hasn’t set in yet and she’s grateful for that; she can only imagine what the air conditioning will do to her electricity bill. Being pregnant in the summer sucks, she remembers that well enough.

            And it should be awkward, probably. How much time have they spent together, actually? Getting to know each other? A few hours at the bar. (His apartment after doesn’t count because that wasn’t—that was a different kind of getting to know each other.) And every interaction since has been because of the baby.

            (The _baby_ , _God_ , this is really happening.)

            So it should be awkward, this almost date, but oddly enough, it’s _not_. And that, more than anything, is what unnerves her. 

            They keep it light, talk about their days, their jobs. He works on the harbor—“shoreside marine engineer, love,” he tells her, which basically means he works on ships, repairing and such. It explains why he smells faintly of the sea, why his hands are so calloused, and she can tell he loves it. She, in turn, tells him about her job as a bail bonds person. Avoids talking about Henry and Neal and _real_ things, and if he notices he doesn’t comment.

            And it’s easy, somehow, sitting with him and talking to him. He makes her laugh but she makes him laugh, too, and it’s _fun_.

            She likes him, she knew this, and part of her had hoped that spending time with him would dim that somewhat. It would be much easier to go on insisting on just friends if she weren’t so damned attracted to him.

            This entire thing would be easier if he were less—less kind, or charming, or—just—

            In the short amount of time they’ve spent together she’s come to like him and trust him and feel comfortable around him and everything in her is shouting to run away because this can’t last; he can’t last. She has a lifetime’s worth of experience with being let down by people and that she’s been charmed into thinking that _this_ man is somehow different is unsettling.

            Everything in her is screaming _run_ even as she feels herself drifting closer, being pulled toward him as though by a magnet.

            He says he won’t leave, but so did Neal.

            (But she wants to believe in him.)

            (But she’s not sure she can.)

            “You look tired,” he says sometime later, and it’s only as he says it that she realizes they’d been sitting in silence for who knows how long, finishing off their ice creams together. As if on cue she yawns. He smiles softly at her.            

            “Yeah, I should probably get back home,” she agrees, because _yes_ , she needs to go home and think—or not think—panic, maybe, and this was probably a bad idea, she should be pushing him away, not encouraging him—

            _If_ she’s even encouraging him, if he’s even interested, if—

            “I’ll walk you,” he says, standing. She rolls her eyes.

            “I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.”

            “I don’t doubt that. But I’d like to walk you anyway.” She raises an eyebrow. “For my own peace of mind. Just so I know you make it there safely.”

            “It’ll take you way longer to get home.”

            She needs to get away now, she needs to think and she can’t think clearly with him so close.

            “I’ll text you so you know I made it back,” he offers with a grin, and she sighs dramatically.

            “Fine, I guess you can escort me home.”

            He grins and falls into step beside her and, okay, maybe it’s not _terrible_ that he’s walking her home, maybe she can stand a few more minutes with him.

            (It scares her how easy this is and just how _he_ is and if she thinks about it too long she’ll fall apart so she shoves the thoughts aside.)

            “Where’s Henry this evening?” he asks a few minutes later.

            “With Neal. He’s dropping him off tomorrow.”

            “Are you and Neal on good terms?” he asks tentatively.

            She shrugs. “It’s better than it was. We keep things civil for Henry.”

            She doesn’t want to talk about Neal, doesn’t want to rehash her past with him, but she knows Killian’s curious and he probably should know, eventually. Neal will always be in her life because of Henry and now Killian will be, too, because of this baby, and because both these kids are hers of course Neal and Killian will also probably have to interact at some point. It’s not unreasonable for him to want to know what happened.

            But she’s not ready yet.

            He doesn’t press her further, though, and she’s grateful. (And still unnerved.)           

            What he _does_ do is take her hand, a few blocks from her apartment. She laces their fingers without thinking, catching the grin spreading across his face out of the corner of her eye and it makes something warm spread through her chest, both the feeling of his hand around hers and the smile on his face that that _she_ is somehow the cause of it and just—

            (She doesn’t let herself think about it.)

            He walks her all the way to her door and it’s sweet and, again, a little disconcerting—he’s just so _nice_ , and she hadn’t pegged him as this sort of guy when she first met him but it’s a pleasant surprise just the same.

            “Have a good night, Swan,” he tells her, smiling softly.

            “You, too. Thanks for the ice cream.”

            “And the company?”

            “Eh, it was okay,” she teases, and he grins. She hugs him again—she likes hugging him, she realizes, likes touching him, and usually she holds back but she’s already pregnant and there are worse things than _hugging_ the man who got you pregnant, so she doesn’t let herself overanalyze it, just lets herself step toward him and wrap her arms around him, feels him do the same.

            “I’ll talk to you later?” he asks. She nods.

            “Yeah. Good night.”

            His eyes crinkle as he smiles, and they’re _so_ blue, she can’t help hoping that’s something their kid inherits.

            “Good night.”

            (And if she leans up against her door after she’s closed it, smiling, heart racing—well. There are worse things than having a crush on the father of your child.)

\---

            (She lasts fifteen minutes before the panic sets in again. She doesn’t respond when he texts her later that he’s home.)

\---

            Sunday they go to Mary Margaret and David’s for dinner.

            And as inconsistent as Neal can be, she’s glad Henry at least has David, who’s very much stepped up as a sort of uncle to her son, and, if she’s being honest, his reaction is one of the ones she’s most worried about.

            She met Mary Margaret first, soon after she’d moved to Boston. Henry was only two then, and she and Neal hadn’t spoken since before she found out she was pregnant, and it was only for a job that she’d left Arizona at all but suddenly she found herself alone and friendless in New England with a toddler. Mary Margaret was working at a day care center back then, the one Emma ended up sending Henry to, and the two of them became friends, somehow, which led Emma to meeting Ruby, Mary Margaret’s friend from childhood, and David, her husband, then boyfriend. Almost right away she and David fell into a sort of brother-sister relationship, and as she and Mary Margaret grew closer it became sort of like having a family. No one had been quite as anti-Neal when he came back into the picture as David, or as wary when she started thinking about dating a few years back.

            She’s terrified of what he’ll say, that he’ll be disappointed in her—and she feels even worse because it’s one of his friends. That unpleasant weight has settled itself in her stomach again and she half wants to beg off, make up an excuse not to go over, but Henry’s been looking forward to seeing them and she needs to keep up the semblance of normality for as long as she can. For Henry’s sake. (And her own.)

            She’d asked Mary Margaret not to say anything to David yet, wanting to be the one to break the news, and while she is legitimately concerned about miscarrying (even though she knows the risks aren’t as high for her), she also knows she’s mostly just stalling, which is why she’s put off telling Henry and David.

            (If she could get away with saying nothing at all to Neal, she would.)

            “Hey!” David greets when they arrive that night.

            “Hello!” Henry returns, hugging David. David pulls her in for a hug, too before ushering the both of them into the apartment.

            Mary Margaret smiles and hugs them both, too, and then they’re all in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner. Henry’s talking their ears off about the book Mary Margaret got him, the book of fairy tales, and David’s regaling them with stories from work. He’s a cop, which Henry thinks is the coolest thing.

            “So when are you gonna come to one of my hockey games, hmm?” David asks them as they sit down to eat.

            “Uh,” Emma starts because _Killian_ is on the hockey team and going to see David would mean seeing him and it’s all a little too—

            “Yeah, mom, when can we go?”

            “It’s just been kind of crazy lately, and—”

            “You told Killian we would,” Henry says mildly, and she freezes, and she feels Mary Margaret freeze, too. David just looks confused.

            “Killian?”

            “Yeah, mom’s friend,” Henry answers, and, okay, this complicates things. David just smirks at Emma, though, which is _not_ the reaction she’d expected but she’ll take it.

            “Well, tomorrow’s the last game. I think you owe it to both of us to come,” David says, and, okay, clearly he’s decided to play this as teasing older brother and not overprotective older brother, which—fine. Unexpected, but fine.

            “Can we go, Mom?” Henry asks.

            She can never say no when he looks at her like that.

            “Yeah, okay,” she sighs. “What time is it at, again?”

            Henry cheers beside her and David grins wider, telling her the time and the address, and Mary Margaret is looking at her over her cup of tea with a look that’s a little too mother-y, and _God_ , when did her life get so complicated?

            She’s hoping David will drop it but when the two of them end up on dish duty he brings up Killian. Of course.

            “So. You and Killian?” he asks, nudging her shoulder as he washes, she dries.

            “It’s nothing,” she lies.

            “Uh huh. Introducing him to Henry?”

            “That wasn’t—we’re just friends. Honestly, David.”

            And it’s not a _complete_ lie. They are more friends than dating at this point—though whether that changes at all remains to be seen.

            (A lot of things remain to be seen.)

            “Okay, okay,” David concedes, but he’s still smiling. Just as she’s thought he was going to let the subject drop he bumps her shoulder again, smile softer. “He’s a good guy. Had a rough time of it, but he’s a good guy, Emma.”

            She almost wants to ask him exactly _how_ Killian’s had a rough time, but that doesn’t seem fair to Killian so she doesn’t. But she wonders exactly how close he and David are, and what sorts of things they talk about.

            (She wonders if Killian asked about her, those weeks after.)

            “So does that mean you give him your stamp of approval?” she jokes, but it’s half serious. David shrugs.

            “Depends. I need to see you two together before I make any snap judgments.”

            She knows he’s surprised by the fact that she suddenly hugs him, but he doesn’t comment, just hugs her back, soapy hands and all.

\---

            _We’re gonna be at your hockey game tonight_ , she texts him the next morning. _Just wanted to give you a heads up._

            It’s a few hours before he responds—she knows he works strange hours so it doesn’t bother her. She’s not even really expecting a response, but she smiles when she sees a message from him anyway. (And hates herself a little for it.)

            _Should I be concerned?_

            _Haven’t told him yet. You should be fine._

_Oh good._

            A few minutes later:

            _See you tonight_ _J_

\---

            Henry’s never really been into sports. Neal’s taken him to a few Red Sox games, and he watches hockey and football with David sometimes, but her son’s never been the type to go out for any sort of team. He likes watching it well enough, but it’s a passing interest, not something he’s truly interested in.

            She’d assumed his interest in hockey came from wanting to see David play, but it turns out he’s more interested in the sport than she initially believed.

            He spends the trip to the community center telling her the rules and random trivia he’d picked up in the library books he’d been reading on the subject, and she ruffles his hair and asks questions, loving watching her little boy (who’s, admittedly, not so little anymore) get so animated about something.

            “Think I can play hockey this season?” he asks as they walk into the rink, and the season starts in the fall, when she’ll be very pregnant, and she’s not sure she’ll be able to swing getting him to practice while seven months pregnant, but she can’t say that, can she? She forces a smile.

            “We’ll see.”

            She spots Mary Margaret in the stands and goes over to sit beside her. She’s not alone. Sitting with her is a little boy, probably 4 or 5.

            “Hey. Who’s this?” Emma asks.

            “This is Roland, Robin’s son,” Mary Margaret supplies. Henry asks if he can go down by the ice to say hi to David and Emma nods, watching him take off.

            “Robin—which one was he?” Emma asks as she sits down beside her. And she’s not looking for Killian, she’s just—she’s taking in the whole picture. The whole team.

            “Also British, talking with Killian at the party,” Mary Margaret supplies. Emma nods, vaguely remembering being introduced to a Robin. “He’s a widower.”

            “Ah.” Explains why Mary Margaret is watching his son.

            “So how’s it going?” Mary Margaret asks casually. Emma shrugs.

            Down by the ice David is waving to Henry, and as she watches them Killian spots her. She’s too far to see his face (obstructed by a mask anyway) but she knows he’s smiling at her. She smiles back but doesn’t wave and _God_ , she feels like a teenager with a crush.

            “It’s okay,” she replies.

            “Have you guys talked anymore?”

            “We got ice cream over the weekend. While Henry was with Neal. We text sometimes.” She says it casually, like it’s nothing, but if the way Mary Margaret is looking at her is any indication she understands everything Emma’s _not_ saying.

            Henry’s bounding back up to them and Mary Margaret knows better than to continue that line of conversation, and the game’s starting anyway. Emma’s grateful for the distraction and wraps her arm around Henry.

            It’s strange, sitting with Mary Margaret and Henry and little Roland, watching this hockey game, because she realizes that this could easily become her life. A year from now she could be sitting in these same seats, only with another little one, cheering on her—Killian. She’s not sure how she feels about it, honestly, but the idea of it is enough that she can barely focus on the game, instead thinking about this kid growing inside her—if it’ll have dark hair like him or light hair like her, if it’ll inherit his bright blue eyes. If she’ll have another little boy, or a girl.

            (She tries not to think of Killian coaching a kid’s hockey team and fails miserably.)

            After the game (David’s team won, she got that much) they all go to meet the guys. Roland runs to his father and jumps into his arms and, again, Emma tries not to imagine the same scene except with Killian and their child ( _their child_ ) and, again, fails.

            “Thanks for watching him,” Robin says to Mary Margaret, and she waves him off.

            “It was my pleasure.”

            “I think we met before, I’m Robin,” he says to Emma.

            “Emma. This is my son, Henry,” she tells him. He smiles at the boy.

            “Did you enjoy the game?” David asks Henry. He’s got his arm around Mary Margaret and Emma’s _not_ looking for Killian in the crowd of players and families.

            “Yeah! Mom said maybe I can play this year,” Henry tells them.

            “Really? Isn’t it a little dangerous?” Mary Margaret says.

            “What’s life without a little danger?” Killian asks over Emma’s shoulder. She turns to look at him and he winks— _winks_ —at her. “Sounds like a great idea, lad,” he says, turning his attention back to Henry.

            She takes a moment to look at him—face flushed and sweaty from the game, hair sticking up even more than normal, easy smile. _God_.

            “It’s no worse than football,” David says, effectively breaking Emma out of her moment.

            “I suppose,” Mary Margaret concedes.

            “Well, I should get this one home to bed,” Robin says, and Roland rests his head on his father’s shoulder. “See you around.”

            They say their goodbyes and as David and Robin make plans to meet up Killian turns toward her ever so slightly.

            “Everything all right?” he asks quietly, eyes darting down to her stomach.

            She nods.

            “Yeah.”

            He smiles at her.

            “Good.”

            She resists the urge to rest her hand on her stomach—it’s becoming an unconscious act more and more lately but she’s afraid it would be too obvious here.

            “What do you think, Killian, drinks Friday night?” David’s asking him, and Killian tears his gaze from Emma.

            “Sounds good,” he says. David nods and Robin gives a final wave goodbye before heading for the door.

            “We should probably get going, too,” Emma says, putting her hand on Henry’s shoulder, moving away from Killian ever so slightly.

            “Okay. Thanks for coming, guys,” David says, giving them both a hug. Mary Margaret follows, giving Emma a significant look that makes her want to roll her eyes.

            “Bye,” Henry tells them. He turns to Killian, who nods to him. “See ya, Killian.”

            “See you around, lad,” he responds.

            She wants to hug him but it’s too much, with everyone here—as far as anyone knows they’re just friends who hung out once, even if there’s more to it than that. She needs to tell Henry and David soon because this pretending is crushing her.

            “Bye,” she tells him, meeting his gaze. She sees understanding there and he nods imperceptibly, smiling.

            “Bye, Emma,” Killian says.

            She doesn’t glance back at them as she and Henry leave but she feels his eyes on her just the same.

\---

            _Sorry if that was weird,_ she texts after she puts Henry to bed.

            _It’s fine, love_.

            And she knows it’s just one of those endearments he uses for everyone—just like calling Henry ‘lad,’ but it warms her all the same.

 


	4. Chapter 4

            “Interesting book selection,” Belle remarks as she scans the stack he’s set on the reference desk. He shrugs, smiling.

            “I like to educate myself.”

            She quirks an eyebrow.

            “And is a congratulations in order?”

            He shrugs again, smile widening, and she smiles, too.

            It’s probably a sign of how sad his life is, that the only person he really has to share the news with is his _librarian_ , but at least it’s something.

\---

            He’s falling for Emma and he knows it. Can _feel_ it. And yet he understands that she’s not there yet—may never get there, actually—and so he resolves to wait. He tries to find the balance between being there for her and supporting her but not smothering her. The difference between spending time with her and dating her.

            He’s surprised when she invites him to get ice cream (for all intents and purposes _she_ invited _him_ ) but it feels like a step—forward, or something. A shuffle, maybe.

            And God, but seeing her at the hockey game opens up a whole new corner of his mind because while he’s aware of the fact that she’s pregnant, he’s been focused more on the pregnancy itself than the _after_ , and the hockey game is like a wake up call, a reminder that there will be an actual _child_ soon—in a few months. That she could very well bring his child to watch him play hockey, that he could have a little one come running up to him after, like Robin with Roland.

            It’s just a community hockey league; the fans are no more than the wives and girlfriends of the players, a sporadic audience at best. But he’s not used to having anyone to cheer for him, hasn’t had that in a very long time, and while he knows that Emma and Henry weren’t there for _him_ , he also knows that they could be, one day.

            (And he _wants_ that.)

            But even if things with Emma never move beyond friendship—a very likely scenario, he reminds himself constantly—just knowing that he’ll have a child—at least one person who cares what he does—warms him.

            And when he hears Henry say he wants to play hockey, he realizes that his child might want to play sports one day, or perhaps play an instrument, or maybe act in school plays. It hits him, almost all at once, all the possibilities—the life that’s starting to appear on the horizon.

            And he finds, the more he thinks about it, that he wants it, all of it. He wants to be there for everything, every game and practice and performance, whatever it is his kid does. He doesn’t want to miss anything.

            He doesn’t remember his father, just remembers watching his mother struggle. Remembers how Liam had to help him with homework while mum was at work, how Liam would walk him to school and slip him an extra bit of money for a snack, how Liam had to get a job as soon as they arrived in the States to help out.

            He won’t put that burden on Emma—or on Henry.

            He’ll be the father his never was. Even if all he knows of fatherhood is absence.

            It’s complicated, though, because he and Emma aren’t together and they don’t live together, so just by virtue of that circumstance he’ll miss a lot. Even if he visits as much as he can—as much as she allows—he still won’t be there always.

            He wants to be with Emma because he does like her, he is falling for her in her own right, but he’d be lying if he pretended that the baby had nothing to do with his desire for it all to work out.

\---

            After the hockey game they text more, but they don’t see each other. He tentatively asks her to lunch one day but she responds quickly that she has a longstanding lunch tradition with her friends, and he doesn’t ask again.

            He also doesn’t ask if she’s said anything to anyone else yet. He assumes she would tell him, and, anyway, it’s only week eleven. She’d wanted to wait, and he doesn’t want it to seem like he’s pressuring her.

            But he also knows that she’s keeping him at arm’s length _because_ no one knows yet. They’re not dating so it makes no sense to anyone why they would be spending time together, and how would she explain his presence to her son? He figures things will change once Henry knows. He figures he’ll be able to be around more then—around her and Henry.

So he waits.

\---

            He decides to call her one night. They’ve mostly been communicating via text, and there’s been no discussion banning phone calls but he still feels nervous as he waits for her to pick up, afraid he’s crossed some sort of line.

            “ _Hello?_ ”

            “Hi. It’s Killian,” he says needlessly.

            “ _Yeah, I know. What’s up?_ ”

He imagines her puzzled expression. Maybe this was a bad idea.

            “Nothing. Just, wanted to call. Say hi. See how things are.”

            “ _Oh._ ” Pause. “ _Well I’m just finishing up the dishes._ ” He hears a voice on the other end—probably Henry—and then— “ _Is it okay if I call you later?_ ”

            “Yeah, sure, that’s fine, I was just—”

            “ _I just—I’m cleaning up and Henry’s getting ready for bed and—”_

“Not a problem, love, I—”

            “ _I’ll call you back, okay?”_

            “Okay. You don’t have to,” he assures her, and she pauses again.

            “ _I know._ ”

            He can’t read her tone, but before he can say anything she’s saying bye and hanging up.

            Yeah, probably a mistake.

            He can’t help the grin that breaks out when her name flashes across his phone screen a few hours later.

            “ _Hey,”_ she greets.

            “Swan.”

            “ _Henry volunteered to bring cupcakes to school tomorrow,_ ” she tells him. “ _He waited until 7 to tell me that so I’ve spent the evening baking and trying not to make a complete mess of my kitchen._ ”

            “I see,” he says, smiling. “What’s the occasion?”

            “ _Last day of school._ ”

            He hears rustling.

            “ _How was your day?_ ”

            “Pretty boring, actually. What year is he in?”

            “ _Fourth grade. Though he’ll officially be a fifth grader after tomorrow, as he keeps telling me,_ ” she explains, and there’s a fondness in her voice that makes him smile.

            “Fifth grade, huh?”

            “ _Yeah_.” There’s a sort of sadness to her tone now. “ _His birthday’s in a month and he’s all excited because double digits. And pretty soon he’ll be in middle school, and then high school, and I feel like he was just a toddler, drawing me pictures of dragons and pretending to be a pirate.”_

            He’s not sure how to respond to that—if she’s even expecting him to.

            “Is it strange to be starting all over again, so many years later?” he asks after a pause.

            “ _Sort of. I had no idea what I was doing with Henry, but he’s turned out okay so I’ll probably be less of a mess this time,”_ she tells him. “ _But there’s also—_ ”

            She pauses.

            “What?”

            “ _It would be completely different, having a girl, wouldn’t it?_ ”

            It feels like the air’s been knocked out of him.

            “ _You okay?_ ”

            “Yeah. I just—” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve tried not to think too much about that part. Boy or girl.”

            “ _Do you have a preference?”_ she asks, curious. He shrugs, then remembers she can’t see him.

            “I dunno. Don’t think so.” He pauses. “Do you?”

            “ _I dunno. Maybe? I have a son so I feel like another boy would be easier. A girl would just be different._ ”

            “Not a bad thing.”

            “ _No._ ”

            They lapse into silence.

            “Do you want to find out?”

            She doesn’t answer right away.

            “ _I’m not sure. I didn’t with Henry._ ”

            “No?”

            It surprises him somehow. He hears movement, the rustle of blankets. She doesn’t say anything and he gets the feeling he’s touched on something            she’s rather not speak of.

“ _Do you wanna find out?_ ” she asks after a pause.

            “Sort of. Only if you do.”

            “ _I think so, yeah._ ” She pauses. “ _It’s too early, though._ ”

            “Right. Not until the _next_ appointment.”

            “ _I forget that I’m talking to the expert here_ ,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. He grins. “ _So, the next appointment is Wednesday._ ”

            “I remember.”

            “ _Do you wanna come? You don’t have to, I just—”_

“I want to.” He pauses, considering his words before he speaks. “I don’t know what, exactly, happened with Neal.” He hears her breathing change. “But I won’t leave you to do this on your own.”

            “ _So you keep saying,_ ” she says quietly.

            “I mean it, Emma.”

            He wants to say more but he’s at a loss. (He wants to ask about Neal but he stops himself. It’s clear she doesn’t want to talk about it and he doesn’t want to push her because then she might retreat even more, and if they’re barely communicating _now_ —)

            “ _I should probably get going. I have to get Henry to school in the morning, and—”_

“All those cupcakes, too,” he adds. He smiles and hopes his tone is light enough.

            “ _Yeah._ ” He hears the smile in her voice. “ _Good night, Killian._ ”

            “Good night Emma,” he says.            

The call disconnects.

\---

            He dreams of a little girl with curly blonde hair, a little boy with her eyes.

\---

            _Could you give me a ride tomorrow?_ She texts on Tuesday morning.

            _Of course. Everything okay?_

_Yeah, my car’s just in the shop right now._

He furrows his brow.

            _Need to go anywhere else? Let me know._

_I will._

\---

            It’s Tuesday night and he’s idly flipping through the channels, searching for something to distract him. Because he gets to see Emma tomorrow, and if the books are to be trusted, they’ll get to hear the baby’s heart beat tomorrow, and it’s probably too early for her to be showing but he hasn’t seen her in weeks and there might be _something_ , and—

            His phone buzzes from its spot on the coffee table and a grin breaks out across his face when he sees her name.

            “Hello,” he says.

“ _Hey,”_ she greets. “ _So, I have a favor to ask._ ”

“Anything.”

She pauses, and he cringes. Too much, possibly.

“ _I have to take Henry to camp tomorrow,_ ” she starts. _“But I don’t have a car right now and the appointment’s right after so—”_

“So do you want me to pick you both up and drop him off on the way?”

 _“If you don’t mind._ ”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“ _Are you sure?”_

“Yeah, of course.”

“ _Okay. Thanks._ ”

“Not a problem.”

            A pause.

            “ _So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning._ ”

            “Eight? Or earlier?”

            “ _Eight should be good. Our appointment isn’t until 9, so that gives us time to drop Henry off and then get over there._ ”

            It makes him feel warm to hear her using words like _our_ and _us_ , even if it’s unintentional.

            “Okay. See you tomorrow, Swan.”

            _“Bye, Killian.”_

\---

            He almost stops for donuts on his way to pick up Emma and Henry but he’s not sure what kind of donuts they like, if they even like them, and Emma probably feeds the boy before she sends him to camp, and she might not want him eating junk food so early, so he doesn’t. Maybe next time.

            (He assumes there will be a next time, some day. Some Saturday or something spent with Emma and her boy. He hopes.)

            Emma answers the door looking frazzled and a little pale.

            “Hey,” she says when she sees him.

            “You all right?”

            “Fine. Just a little nauseous. You know,” she answers, ushering him inside briefly. He hadn’t realized—he read about morning sickness but she hadn’t said anything so he’d assumed—“Henry!” she calls down the hall.

            “Coming!”

            “Mornings are a little chaotic,” she explains. He opens his mouth to ask her about the morning sickness but Henry appears then, a backpack on his pack, book in hand, collar askew.

            “Hello,” he says brightly, smiling at Killian.

            “Morning, lad.”

            “Did you grab your lunch?” Emma asks as she fixes Henry’s collar. He nods. “And you have the snack money I gave you?”

            Henry pulls two dollars out of his pocket.

            “Okay, don’t lose it. Put it in your backpack so it doesn’t fall out.”

            “I won’t lose it,” Henry promises.

            “Put it in your backpack when we get to the car, okay? Just to be safe,” Emma tells him, and he rolls his eyes a bit but agrees.

            “Ready?” Killian asks. Henry nods and leads the way out. Emma grabs her things and locks the door behind them as they head outside to Killian’s car.

            “How come you’re giving us a ride?” Henry asks.

            “It’s on my way,” Killian answers, the lie quick and easy on his tongue. He sees Emma give him a grateful smile. They hadn’t talked about a cover story; it hadn’t occurred to him that they might need one.

            “To your work?”

            “Aye.”

            “Where do you work?”

            “Henry,” Emma says. But Killian answers anyway as he opens the passenger door for her.

            “I work down by the docks.”

            “What do you do? Are you a fisherman or something?”

            He smiles. He’s not been around many children and wonders for a moment if Henry’s questions are typical of a kid his age or if he’s the inquisitive sort.

            “I’m a ship mechanic, essentially. Repairing the boats when they’re broken, checking engines.”

            “Cool,” Henry says, and Emma smiles at Killian.

            Emma directs him to Henry’s day camp as Henry asks questions from the backseat, about his job and hockey and his accent.

            “Are you from England?” he asks.

            “Aye. London.”

            “Why’d you move here?”

            “My mother’s sister was here. She wanted to be near her.”

            “How old were you?”

            “Ten,” he answers. Emma is looking at him but he keeps his eyes on the road. He hasn’t told her any of this.

            “I’m almost ten,” Henry tells him.

            “Your mum mentioned that. When’s your birthday?”

            “July 11,” he answers. “I’m having a laser tag party.”

            “That sounds fun.”

            “Have you ever played laser tag?”

            “You know, I haven’t. Is it fun?”

            “Yeah. My dad took me to play laser tag last year, and Avery had a laser tag party, too, and Scott wanted to but his mom thinks laser tag is too violent.”

            “I take it Scott won’t be at your party, then,” Killian comments with a smirk.

            “We’re here,” Emma says as Killian pulls up in front of the community center. She unbuckles her seat belt. “I’m just gonna run him in.”

            “Okay. Have a good day, lad,” Killian tells Henry.

            “You too. Are you and mom gonna pick me up?”

            Killian glances at Emma.

            “He might have work,” Emma answers, eyes on Killian. The air is charged with something and for a long moment neither look away.

            “Okay. Bye!” Henry says, effectively breaking the tension, as he gets out of the car. Killian looks away and waves as Emma and Henry disappear inside. Emma reappears a few minutes later.

            “You don’t have to pick him up tonight, I’ll see if Mary Margaret can give me a ride or something.”

            “I don’t mind. Truly,” he tells her as he merges back into traffic. “I like the thought of him at least being sort of familiar with me before you tell him.”

            “He knows who you are.”

            It rankles him, this reluctance on her part, this devotion to keeping him at arm’s length.

            “He knows I’m a friend of yours,” he corrects. “Quite a jump from friend to father of the sibling he’s going to have.”

            She looks at him and he forces himself to keep his eyes on the road, grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly.

            “We’re not dating, Killian,” she says slowly. “You’re not my boyfriend and he doesn’t need to think you are for me to tell him.”

            It stings more than it should. His knuckles turn white as his grip tightens further.  

            “Then what are we, Swan?”

“Friends.”

He scoffs.

“And what’s he going to think when you tell him you’re pregnant, or does he still believe in the stork?”

            He should shut up, he’s not helping anything, but he’s frustrated and _trying_ to be a good guy, here, but all he can think is if this sort of thing had happened to _his_ mother, if he’d been Henry’s age and his mother had gotten pregnant and the man was a stranger to them, he’d have had a hard time seeing the man as anything but a villain who would only hurt his mother—had already done so, probably. And he _doesn’t_ want to be that sort of man, and he doesn’t want Henry to think of him as such. 

            “What I tell my son is none of your business,” she says sharply, and he’s digging quite a hole for himself but there’s no point turning back now so he continues on.

            “Maybe not, but I’d like him not to think of me as some stranger who waltzed in and got his mother pregnant because we both know this is more than that.”

            (Isn’t it?)

            “Ice cream and text messages and a phone conversation don’t make us—”

            “It’s not nothing, either,” he retorts.

            “It doesn’t make this a relationship.”

            “Why don’t you want him to know me?”

            “Because I don’t want him getting attached to people who aren’t gonna stick around and be a part of his life!”

            “I’m not sticking around?” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve told you, I will be here, I will be part of my child’s life. You’re stuck with me, Swan, whether you like it or not.”

            “Yeah but Henry _isn’t_ _yours_.”

            “And you think I’d just ignore him?”

            And that stings, too, because what kind of man does she take him for? He knows they don’t know each other very well, but—

            She shrugs.

            “This baby makes me part of your life, and Henry’s part of your life which makes me part of his too. It’s all—it’s all the same, as far as I’m concerned.” He takes a deep breath. “And, as you keep reminding me, we’re not dating, so why should it be so terrible to have me around your son? I’m not a casual boyfriend you could break up with.”

            “No, you’re more than that,” she says, but it’s not the way he wants to hear those words.            She sounds sad, defeated, almost.

            They arrive at the doctor’s office and he parks. The silence between them is thick and heavy and it’s settled in his stomach. She unbuckles her seat belt and puts her hand on the door handle.

            “Why didn’t you tell me you had morning sickness?” he asks quietly. Her hand drops but she doesn’t look at him.

            “Why does that matter?”

            “Because it’s—this—you don’t have to do all this alone.”

            He wants her to _understand_ he—

            “And what would you have done if I had said something?” she questions, looking at him now, expression hard and tone challenging.

            “I don’t know—brought you tea or medicine or something,” he says, because she’s right, there’s really not much he could’ve done, it’s the _principle_ of the thing.

            “I don’t need you to take care of me,” she tells him with all the self-reliance of someone who’s probably never had anyone take care of them, and his heart throbs. Similar as they may be (and he _does_ think they’re more similar than either of them realize), he also knows that he had Liam. He _did_ have someone to look after him, until he didn’t.

            “I _want_ to, Emma.” Even if he’s not sure he even knows how. “I want to be your partner in this. I want to know if you’re not feeling well, I want to come to these appointments with you and pick out the crib or whatever, I want to spend time with you and your son because you’re part of my life now and I don’t want to do this halfway. I don’t want to just show up for events and miss the day to day details and I know you’re scared but all I’m asking is that you trust me.”

            “I don’t even know you.”

            “Then let’s get to know each other!” he exclaims, frustrated and keyed up _what_ happened to her to have made her like this? He takes a deep breath and softens his tone. “Why do you think I spent that whole night talking to you, ignoring everyone else?”

She doesn’t avert his gaze but she doesn’t respond, either.

“Nothing has changed,” he says.

            “I’d say a lot has changed, Killian,” she responds.

            He sighs.

Fine. If she’s going to be this difficult—

            He turns away and starts to open his door but her hand on his arm stops him.

            “Wait—I’m sorry.”

            He turns back to her and she pulls her hand away.

            “I don’t know how to do this, okay? I’m trying to keep everything as normal as possible for my kid when everything’s changing, I’m trying to figure out how to tell him and how to make this not mess up everything. Neal’s always been the unstable one but I’m supposed to be his rock and now I’m bringing another kid into the picture and that means bringing you in, too, and I don’t know how to do this without hurting him, I don’t know how to explain it to him, how to explain it to his friends’ parents. I’m already the unmarried single mother—I know what they think of me, some of them. And now this?” She shakes her head.

            _Fuck_. He hadn’t thought about other parents.

            Maybe he _is_ a villain here.

            “Why can’t you tell them we _are_ dating?” he suggests weakly. “They don’t have to know it isn’t true.”

            “I don’t wanna lie to my kid.”

            “Then don’t lie.” He pauses, trying to act as though his heart _isn’t_ racing, as though this is just a casual question when it’s far more than that. “Go on a date with me.”

            “I can’t.”

            “Why?”

            “Because what if it doesn’t work out?”

            “But what if it does?”

            And he hopes she can see, that she can read him in this moment, that she can see in his gaze that he means everything he’s saying and she _can_ trust him and he _is_ in it for the long haul and he _does_ have feelings for her—real, proper feelings.

            She shakes her head and looks away.

            “I can’t—I can’t do this right now.” He latches onto the _now_. “Maybe later, maybe after, but right now I need to focus on my son, and this pregnancy, and I don’t have time to deal with my feelings for you on top of it.”

            He can’t help himself.

            “But you have feelings for me?”

            She rolls her eyes and gets out of the car.

            “You’re an idiot,” she tells him, but there’s no ire in her voice and he grins.

She’s already walking to the door by the time he leaves the car and he jogs up beside her, grabbing her hand. She doesn’t pull away and his heart soars, the air between them clearer, lighter.

            “I think that counts as our first fight,” he tells her.

            She rolls her eyes again.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Hope you guys like this chapter! And thanks for reading. The next update probably won't be up quite as fast as this one, but I've started writing it, so. We'll see.

            He’s an idiot.

            And she’s a teenager with a crush.

            It’s the only explanation she can come up with for _why_ she’s lying awake (an hour before her alarm’s set to go off) thinking about him and his stupid face. And smile. And, _God_ —

            She doesn’t _want_ to think about him but ever since that doctor’s visit he’s constantly on her mind. Him and his stupid face and _trust me_ and _go on a date with me_ and the expression on his face when they heard the baby’s heartbeat—

            Like _awe_ or something equally weighty and terrifying and _sincere_ , and _God_ , he probably is telling the truth and that’s possibly even scarier than him pulling a Neal.

            (Not that he could, really. Because Neal she was actually dating, Neal she was in love with, Neal—)

            “Mom?”

            She sits up and sees Henry standing by her door, hair sticking up all over, frown firmly in place.

            “What’s wrong?” she asks.

            “I don’t feel good,” he says, sniffling pathetically. She smiles softly.

            “Wanna come lay down with me?”

            He nods and she lifts the blankets, and it’s all the invitation he needs before he’s jumping onto the bed and snuggling up beside her.

            Maybe she shouldn’t run the AC so much, but it’s _hot_ and she’s pregnant and she’ll deal with the bill later.

            (It’s probably going to be terrible. She tries not to think about it.)

            “What’s going on?” she whispers, pressing a kiss to Henry’s hair.

            “Stomach hurts,” he says.

            “Yeah?”

            He nods. Throws in a cough for good measure. She smiles.

            “Well, I _guess_ I can call in sick and we can stay here today,” she says.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            She runs a hand through his hair.

            “Do you like camp this year? Is it okay?”

            He nods.

            “Just not feeling good?”

            He nods.

            “Just checking.”

            “Is Dad gonna come to my birthday party?” he asks. Her heart clenches.

            “He said he would,” she answers. _Dammit, Neal_. She changes the subject. “Want me to get you some medicine?”

            He shakes his head quickly.

            “Can I just stay here with you?” he asks quietly.

            “Of course.”

            She tugs him a little closer and he snuggles into her side, letting out a small sigh. Her little boy. Except he’s not so little anymore. Soon he probably won’t want to snuggle with her, or be faking illness to spend time with her (and her heart clenches again because he shouldn’t have to, but work’s been crazy and she’s had to leave him with Ruby or Mary Margaret more these past few weeks than she’d like and that fear is back, the fear that she’s a terrible mother and failing him and—and soon it’s not going to be _just_ him).

            She told Killian she wanted to wait until after the first trimester to say anything, and she was mostly just stalling but now—she’s loathe to admit it but she’s starting to show ever so slightly. No one’s going to be coming up to her just yet to ask when the due date is but it _is_ getting harder to fit into her normal clothes, and she knows it’ll only be more difficult to say something the more time she lets pass. She just—Henry’s her whole world. It’s just been them for so long, and she—she wants him to be proud of her. Whatever she was before him, she has—everything she’s done since he was born has been for him, for his sake. She doesn’t want to let her little boy down.

            But maybe she already has.

            She shoves the thought aside and reaches for her phone on the nightstand, calls work. _This_ she can do.

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            Oh good. Grumpy.

            “Hey, it’s Emma. Listen I’m not gonna make it in today.”

            “ _Oh?_ ”

            “Yeah. Henry’s sick and I’m not feeling too great either, I think we’re both coming down with something.”

            She hears Leroy—fondly nicknamed Grumpy by the staff—sigh heavily.

            “ _Get better soon_ ,” he tells her, and she understands it’s less of a well wishing and more of an order.

            “Yeah, I will. Thanks.”

            He hangs up and she puts her phone back on the stand.

            “Is it okay for you to miss work?” Henry asks after a few minutes.

            “Yeah.”

            “Because I’m feeling better so if you have to go to work. I can go to camp, if it’s easier, I can—”

            “Don’t you worry about it,” she assures him, smiling to herself. She knew he was faking it. Her sweet boy. (In some ways he’s exactly like Neal—and her, honestly—but at the same time, far too sweet for his own good.) “We’ll just hang out here today, okay? And if you’re feeling better, well, I guess that means we can go see a movie or something later.”

            “Really?”

            “If you think you’re up to it,” she says with a smile. He nods.

            “I think I could go to a movie.”

            “Ok, good. But not yet.”

            “Ok.” He looks up at her and smiles. “I love you, Mom.”

            _Oh, sweet boy_.

            “I love you too, kid,” she tells him, brushing the hair off his forehead.

She has to tell him. She has to just—

            She takes a deep breath, wills her heartbeat to slow down.

            “I have something to tell you,” she says softly.

            “What is it?” he asks, looking at her again.

            “I—remember when you asked if you could have a brother or sister?”

            (Another _dammit, Neal_ moment, because of course she’d had to answer the question on her own, had to explain to Henry that she and his father would _not_ , under any circumstances, be having any more children together, but maybe if either of them got married, to other people, _then_ —)

            “Yeah,” Henry answers, confusion marring his features.

            “Well,” she begins. She smiles, or tries to, at least. “You’re gonna be a big brother.”

            “Really?” he asks as a smile blooms on his face.

            “Yeah. I’m having a baby,” she tells him, heart still racing but he’s smiling so that’s good, right?

            “Cool!” he exclaims. “When? Is it a boy or girl? What about the name? What—”

            “Whoa, slow down, kid,” she says with a smile. “The doctors told us January, and we don’t know if it’s a boy or girl yet, or what we’re gonna name it.”

            The confusion is creeping back onto his face.

            “Who’s—”

            “Remember—remember my friend Killian? From David’s hockey team?” Henry nods. “He’s the baby’s dad.”

            Henry smiles, and she lets out a (internal) sigh of relief. She’s not sure what she would’ve done, honestly, if he’d reacted any other way.

            “I like him.”

            _Me, too._

            “Is he gonna hang out with us now? Are you gonna get married? Think he wants to come to my birthday party?”

            Her stomach flips at _married_ but she forces herself not to react to it outwardly.

            “Yeah, we’ll probably see him more, and you can invite him to your birthday if you want. But we’re not gonna be getting married any time soon, okay, kid?”

            “Okay,” he agrees. “But true love always wins in the end. That’s what my book says.”

            “What book?”

            “The one Mary Margaret gave me.”

            “Okay, yeah, in fairy tales, but Killian’s not my _true love_ , so, just—”

            “You like him, though. I can tell,” he says with a grin that’s far too smug for her liking. (The kid’s barely _ten_ , what’s he doing talking about true love?)

            She rolls her eyes but she’s grinning too and this was monumentally easier than she’d expected it to be.

            “So you’re okay with this?” she asks. Henry nods.

            “Are you gonna find out if it’s a boy or girl?”

            “Yeah, we were planning on it,” she tells him (and it occurs to her she’s been saying a lot of _we_ and _us_ in reference to Killian and it’s freaking her out a little.)

            “I hope it’s a boy,” Henry declares.

            “Yeah? You don’t want a little sister?”

            He shrugs then. “I mean, I guess that would be okay. But I’d rather have a little brother.”

            “Okay,” she says. Then: “Hey, don’t mention it to anyone yet, okay?”

            “No one knows?”

            “Just don’t say anything to your dad yet, or Uncle David.”

            “Okay.”

            She kisses his forehead. “I love you, kid. So much.”

            “I love you too, Mom.”

            And damn hormones, she should _not_ be tearing up at that, and—

            “And the baby,” he adds.

            Fucking hormones.

\---

            She sends Henry off to shower and get ready so they can go to the movies and that’s when she texts Killian.

            _I told Henry._

            He doesn’t text back.

            He _calls_.

            “What?” she says by way of greeting.

            “ _What did he say? Was he all right?_ ”

            “He’s—he was fine with it, he’s excited, he’s—”

            “ _Yeah?_ ” She can hear his smile, and it makes her smile a little, too.

            “Yeah.”

            “ _That’s good. Right?_ ”

            “Yeah, it’s—it’s good,” she agrees.

            “ _What’s wrong._ ”

            “What?”

            “ _What’s wrong? You sound like something’s wrong—_ ”

            “I’m _fine_ , I’m—”

            “ _Are you at work? Do you want to meet up, get lunch maybe, or—_ ”

            “No, I’m not at work, I’m at home.”

            “ _But it’s a weekday._ ”

            “Called in sick.”

            “ _Are you okay? Is everything_ —”

            “I’m fine, just staying home with Henry, he wasn’t feeling well this morning.”

            “ _Is he okay? Does he have a fever—do you need medicine_ —”

            “Oh my God,” she says, and it’s like a revelation. “You’re gonna be the one who rushes him to the emergency room when he has a cough, aren’t you?” She smiles despite herself. “Henry’s _fine_ , he was faking it.”

            “ _Oh._ ”

            “He just didn’t want to go to camp.”

            “ _Why doesn’t he want to go to camp?_ _Is he having problems there?_ ”

            And he sounds so _concerned_ , and _ugh_ , why is he this unexpectedly nice person who _cares_ about them?

            “Camp is fine. He just wanted to spend some more time with me, I think,” she tells him. “I’ve sorta been working a lot lately, so—”

            “ _Ah,_ ” he says. She chafes a bit at that (what does _he_ know about being a single parent?) but then he says, “ _I’d miss my mum, too, when she was pulling double shifts. I at least had Liam_.”

            She bites her lip. She keeps forgetting that he, apparently, was raised by a single mother.

            “Who’s Liam?” she asks quietly. She hears his intake of breath.

            “ _Liam was my brother_.”

            There’s a story there but she won’t ask. He’s been kind enough not to push her, so she’ll do the same for him.

            “Anyway, I just wanted you to know. That he knows,” she says after a pause.

            “ _And took the news well?_ ”

            She smiles. “Yeah.” And because she thinks he’d want to hear it— “He likes you.”

            “ _Yeah?_ ” She can hear his smile.

            “Yeah, he—” she starts but is interrupted by Henry walking into her room.

            “Who are you talking to? Is that Killian?” he asks.

            “Hold on,” she says into the phone, then to Henry: “Yeah, are you all ready?”

            “Do you think he wants to come to the movies with us?”

            “I dunno, kid, it’s a weekday, and—”

            “Ask him if he wants to come to my birthday,” Henry says.

            “ _Swan?_ ”

            She sighs.

            “Henry wants to know if you’d like to come to his birthday party.”

            “ _I’d love to. When is it?_ ”

            “I’ll tell you later. I should probably get going, though.”

            “Does he wanna come eat with us?” Henry asks loudly.

            “ _I’ll leave you two to have your day,_ ” he tells her in response to Henry’s question. “ _But perhaps another time?_ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _Have a good day, Swan. Tell Henry I’ll be there at his birthday._ ”

            She smiles.

            “I will. Bye.”

            “ _Bye._ ”

            She is _so_ screwed.

\---

            The entire walk to the theatre, all through the rest of the day, all Henry can talk about is the baby. _Walking’s good for the baby, right?_ And _think the baby will like movies?_ and _I can read the baby stories from my book!_ (That one nearly starts her crying again.)

            And while she does feel much better about the situation now that Henry knows, and has reacted favorably, and seems to like Killian (which still scares her but maybe she needs to stop fighting herself and just trust him), she still has to tell David.

            And Neal.

            So when he calls later that night and says he’ll pick Henry up from camp Friday and keep him until Saturday, she has a window. She can tell David while Henry’s with Neal (he probably shouldn’t be around for that conversation anyway) and she can tell Neal—

            She _should_ tell Neal then, too. When he drops off Henry.

            Whether or not she actually does is anyone’s guess.

\---

            “ _I’d like to be there when you tell David._ ”

            “Killian.”

            “ _He’s my friend, too, Emma, and I’d like—_ ”

            “I think it’ll be easier if you’re not, frankly.”

            He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

            “ _What do you want? Not what you think will be easier or better—what do you want?_ ”

            Honestly? She sort of wants him there.

            Because on some level it feels like she’s telling her father she’s pregnant and whatever she and Killian are or are not, she wants him to hold her hand through it. But he’s _not_ her boyfriend and David is _not_ her father and she needs to do this on her own. Doesn’t she?

            “ _Emma?_ ”

            “I—” she sighs. “Yeah, I want you to be there. But—”

            “ _Then be there I shall._ ”

            She rolls her eyes at his wording. Idiot.

            “ _So what’s our cover?_ ”

            “This isn’t a spy movie.”

            “ _Then why are we going to dinner at David and Mary Margaret’s? To announce our engagement?_ ”

            “You wish,” she retorts, and he chuckles. “I don’t know. I can say I ran into you at the store or something, invited you along.”

            “ _So I’m basically just a stray you’ve picked up._ ”

            “Who followed me home,” she corrects.

            “ _I believe it was_ my _home that_ —”

            “Shut up.”

            She can _feel_ his smirk.

            “ _So are we bringing wine or a cheese platter?_ ”

            “I can’t drink wine, genius.”

            “ _But they don’t know that, do they?_ ”

            “A cheese platter.”

            “ _Fair enough. Shall we actually go together to pick it out, add a level of realism to our story, or_ —”

            “Oh my God, Killian, you’re making this way harder than it needs to be.”

            “ _On the contrary_ —”

            “Shut up.”

            “ _Shall we go together is my question_.”

She shrugs.

            “Probably easier that way.”

            “ _Not what’s easier, what do you want to do?_ ”

            Who _is_ this man?

            “Then let’s go together.”

            “ _Better for the environment that way, too_.”

            She rolls her eyes and from his chuckle on the other end he knows it.

\---

            (She feels like a terrible mother for having to remind her son not to tell his father that she’s pregnant but soon everyone will know and there will be no more need for secrecy and then—

            That’s a bridge she doesn’t need to cross yet.)

\---

            “Why do I feel like we’re about to face your parents?”

            “Because David and Mary Margaret are very parental.”

            He’d shown up at her door wearing a button up and blazer ( _“We’re not going to prom, Killian”_ ) with _flowers_ (“ _They’re for Mary Margaret, don’t worry, Swan._ ”) (“ _I wasn’t._ ”) ( _“You were.”_ ) ( _She was._ ) And now they’re wandering the aisles looking for a _cheese platter_ (idiot) and it feels like a date, or a double date, or something that this most definitely is _not_.

            He pays for the cheese platter (it was his idea, after all) and takes her hand as they walk back to the car, and she tries to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. Whether it’s from nerves or his touch is anybody’s guess.

            (It’s probably him.)

            (She doesn’t have time to deal with this, dammit.)

            “It’ll be all right,” he assures her as they approach the apartment (and she wonders, not for the first time, how close he and David are because he doesn’t ask for directions, just drives there as though he knows the way and apparently he does).

            “Yeah,” she agrees. He looks over at her and smiles, and she returns it as best she can, and it’s definitely butterflies she’s feeling, and it’s definitely him, and _fuck_.

            She’s the one who reaches for him as they climb the steps up to David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, and when he squeezes her hand once before letting go as the door swings open she thinks she could love him, probably, maybe.

            (Or maybe she already does.)

            (She doesn’t have time for this shit.)

            “Emma! Hello! And Killian, what a surprise,” Mary Margaret greets. (She’s aware of the plan, though her acting is less than stellar.) She ushers them inside and Emma doesn’t miss the way her eyes narrow at Killian as he hands her the flowers, which makes Emma want to reach out to him.

            But she doesn’t.

            “Killian?” David questions from the other room. She hears Killian take a deep breath behind her. She goes up to give David a hug once they reach the kitchen, then watches as he and Killian shake hands.

            “Hello, mate,” Killian greets.

            “What are you doing here?” David asks, not unkindly. There’s curiosity more than anything coloring his features. Killian glances at her quickly.

            “Ran into Emma at the store.”

            “I was getting a cheese platter, and he’s your friend so I invited him,” Emma adds. David smirks at her before turning his attention back to Killian, and she feels herself blushing slightly.

            “Well, the more the merrier, right, Mary Margaret?” David says. Mary Margaret smiles tightly and Emma glares at her.

            _Be nice_.

            “Of course,” she agrees. “It’s so nice to have you here, Killian.”

            Emma hopes, for both their sakes, that David doesn’t react quite as coolly toward Killian as his wife has.

\---

            They’d decided to wait until after dinner to break the news (because of course they discussed it all in great detail, Killian is surprisingly meticulous about things) but they’re barely sitting down to eat when David looks them with a wide grin.

            “So, you ran into each other at the store?” he says in a way that tells them he _clearly_ doesn’t buy their story.

            Emma nods anyway. Killian glances at her and then nods, too.

            “You guys don’t have to dance around it like this, you know?”

            “Dance around what?” Killian asks, taking a sip of his water.

            “You’re clearly dating,” David says, and Emma can’t help the cringe.

            “We’re really not,” she disagrees.

            “No?”

            “No.”

            The smile starts to slide off his face. Killian glances at her.

            “We did—we did come here for a reason,” he starts. She puts her hand on his leg to stop him and his eyes snap to hers. She removes her hand from him like she’s been burned.

            “What’s going on, guys?” David asks.

            So much for the plan. She takes a deep breath as Killian’s hand finds hers under the table. She laces their fingers and he squeezes once. Not for the first time, she’s glad for his presence.

            “I’m pregnant.”

            David blinks.

            “What?”

            “I’m—I’m going to have a baby.”

            “With Killian.”

            She nods.

            “Does Henry know?”

            She nods again.

            The air is crackling with tension.

            David turns to his wife.

            “You knew?”

            Mary Margaret nods. David shakes his head. Chuckles darkly.

            “I wouldn’t have expected this from you, Killian,” he says, eyes focused on him, and she feels Killian tense beside her. “How could you be so careless? She has a kid!”

            “I’m aware,” he bites out.

            “Hold on,” Emma cuts in, not releasing Killian’s hand under the table.

            “If you hurt her—”

            “I don’t intend to.”

            “Yeah, well, you don’t intend to do a lot of things. Clearly.”

            “Hey!” she snaps. “I’m right here and, not cool, David, he’s not the only one—”

            “Emma—” Killian starts but she waves him off.

            “No. If you wanna be pissed, okay, fine, but this isn’t just on him, and he’s here, so. Back off.”

            “Emma’s right,” Mary Margaret says after a pause. Emma shoots her a grateful smile.

            “I’m still confused, because you said you’re not dating? And yet—”

            “It’s complicated,” Killian says, scratching the back of his neck.

            “I can see that.”

            “We’re still figuring shit out but for now we’re friends,” Emma clarifies.

            “And you’re going to help her?” David asks Killian, and once again it’s like she’s not even in the room.

            “Aye.”

            “Just financially, or—”

            “I’m in it for the long haul, so to speak,” Killian tells him. “I will be as involved as she allows me to be.”

            “And Henry, you’ll treat him well?”

            “Of course.”

            “And Emma?”

            She doesn’t even let him answer that.

            “I’m still right here,” she says. David tears his eyes from Killian finally, his eyes softening as he takes her in. She rolls her eyes. “I appreciate the concern, _Dad_ , but I can take care of myself.”

            “I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

            “No, it was just implied. So cut the _what are you intentions_ shtick. I’ve done this before—by myself—so you can chill out.”

            “But you shouldn’t have had to, Emma. I’m just concerned that—”

            “I know your concerns! They’re my concerns, too!” she exclaims. David glances at Killian and she follows his gaze. He looks slightly hurt and _fuck_ —she rests her hand on his leg again and _when did she start comforting him_ —but moves on.

            “Look,” she begins. “I appreciate your concern, I do. But I can take care of myself and, well.” She turns to look at Killian, who’s just been silently staring at his plate beside her. “He’s here.” He looks up at her and she smiles at him. “And he’s _been_ here, since I told him,” she says, turning her gaze to David and Mary Margaret. “So lay off him.”

            She can see Killian’s smiling at her out of the corner of her eye and it spreads a strange sort of warmth through her.

            “Well,” David starts after a pause. “I suppose a congratulations is in order.”

            She exhales heavily and smiles. David smiles, too, and stands, moving toward her. She meets him in a hug.

            “I’m just looking out for you,” he whispers.

            “I know,” she whispers back. “But he’s a good guy, remember?” she says, throwing his words back at him. He pulls away and grins before turning to Killian. Killian looks a little apprehensive but takes David’s proffered hand. Mary Margaret hugs Emma then and so she doesn’t get to see if David says anything to him.

            “We just worry about you, Emma,” she explains. Emma finds herself tearing up a bit ( _damn hormones_ ).

            “I know.”

            “But we really are happy for you.”

            Emma nods.

            “So, let’s eat, then, shall we?” David announces. They all let out a collective sigh of relief and settle down to dinner as originally planned.

            She catches Killian’s eye and he smiles at her, wide and sincere and—

            And she could _definitely_ , probably love him.

            _Fuck._

\---

            He walks her to her door. (Of course he does, _God_ , could he be less—just—)

            “I think that went about as well as could have been expected,” he says.

            “Yeah,” she agrees. “Thank you for coming, and—I’m sorry David went all—”           

            “Don’t worry, love. I expected it.”

            “Yeah, but—”

            “And he’s right.”

            “Killian.”

            He takes a step closer.

            “Your friends love you very much, Swan. That’s not something to apologize for.”

            “I can apologize when they attack your character.”

            He ducks his head, smiling to himself.

            “In any case,” he says, meeting her eyes again. “Thank you for defending me, Emma.”

            “It’s not a reflection of you or what he thinks of you.  David just—when Neal came back he—he’s just gotten really protective.”

            “Will I ever get to hear that story?” he murmurs, ducking his head slightly.

            “It’s not a nice story,” she breathes, and _when_ did he get so close?

            “That’s okay.”

            She opens her mouth but the words die on her tongue and she _can’t_ and—

            He leans in. Tilts his head up and presses a kiss to her forehead. Her breath hitches.

            “Whenever you wish to tell it,” he says, smiling softly at her.

            The tears that have been threatening to fall do, and he reaches up and brushes them away. She hugs him then—and she’s never been the type to fall into anyone’s arms, crying, and it’s happened twice now with him and she should be running away now, should be shutting him out but instead she finds herself leaning further into him and _letting_ him hold her and—

            And she feels _safe_ with him. And vulnerable and—and she’s not supposed to be feeling any of this, and yet—

            But it’s too much.

            She pulls back and avoids his eyes.

            “Good night, Killian.”

            He takes the hint and steps back, releasing her.

            “Good night, Emma.”

            And it’s stupid, probably, but she kisses him on the cheek before disappearing into her apartment. She doesn’t look to see his reaction.

            (It’s probably something stupid and sweet that would make her fall for him even _more_. And she can’t deal with that right now.)  

\---

            “Hi, Mom!” Henry exclaims as she opens the door, barreling into her for a hug. She smiles.

            “Hey, kid. Did you have a good time with your dad?” she asks, glancing up at Neal. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at her and it still aches, sometimes. The wound he left on her heart.

            “Yeah, we went to the park and—”

            “Hey, buddy, I’ve gotta go but I’ll see you next week at your party, okay?” Neal says. Henry nods and gives Neal a hug and her heart’s in her throat because she needs to tell him and—

            “Actually could I—could I talk to you really quick?” she asks. Father and son look at her and she’s struck by how similar they look. But she’d always—she could always see Neal in Henry, more than she ever saw herself. (She wonders whom this baby will take after.) (This is not a thought she needs to be having at this moment and yet it’s suddenly all she can think about.) ( _Fuck._ )

Henry smiles reassuringly (her sweet boy) and says bye to Neal before disappearing into his room. Neal raises an eyebrow and shoves his hands in his pockets.

            “What’s up, Em?” he asks.

            She wraps her arms around herself.

            “I just—I wanted you to hear it from me, and in person, and—”

            “Emma,” Neal says, reaching out and placing his hands on her arms as if to steady her. He looks in her eyes and smiles at her. “Breathe. Whatever it is, can’t be that bad.”

            She takes a breath.

            “I’m pregnant.”

            She watches it hit him, watches the smile slides off his face and he steps back, removing his hands. She’s glad for it.

            He maintains eye contact for a moment and then glances down, chuckling.

            “Wow.”

            She hugs herself tighter.

            “I thought you should know.”

            He shakes his head, turns to leave (her chest tightens) and then spins back on her.

            “For years you’ve gotten on me about being careful with him—don’t bring any girlfriends around, stuff like that. And now _you_ —”

            “Neal—”

            “So you’ve been seeing someone? Didn’t—didn’t think maybe that was something I should know? Bringing some random guy around _my_ son—”

            “He’s not—he’s only met him once.”

            “Still didn’t tell me.”

            “It wasn’t—it’s not like that, Neal.”

            “No?”

            How he manages to make her feel 17 again is just—

            “He’s just a friend,” she says weakly.

            “That knocked you up.”

            “ _Neal_.”

            He raises his hands in front of him.

            “I’m just—I’m just trying to understand what you’re telling me, and I gotta say—”

            “What? What do you have to say, Neal?”

            “I thought you were better than this, Em,” he says. He smiles and shrugs. It shouldn’t hurt so much—he’s clearly _trying_ to hurt her—and yet it stabs at her and she forces the tears back. She will _not_ cry in front of him. “I just hope you haven’t made a habit of bringing strange guys back, for Henry’s sake, although, judging by this—”

            “Fuck you, Neal.”

            He smiles darkly and leans in closer.

            “You already did. And look where that got you.”

            She closes the door on him without another word.

            “See you next weekend!” he shouts.

            She makes it to the bathroom before she crumbles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite reaction to the last chapter, by far, was “that little fucker Neal.” I laughed really hard at that one. But in all seriousness - I’m not trying to make Neal the bad guy here and he’s not gonna be the villain just for the sake of having a villain. He reacted the way he did for a reason, and yes he’s kind of an asshole, but we already sort of knew that, right? He’s not exactly a hero on the show (despite what the Charmings think - and that whole thing bothers me but anyway) and I wanna try to deal with that as realistically as possible. That being said - good Lord this thing’s gonna be long. The next chapter’s written (do you like how I warned you guys not to get too used to speedy updates and then proceeded to write 3 chapters in 2 days? But really try not to get too used to it in case this pace isn’t a thing I can maintain) and I just have to edit it and then that’ll be up, but possibly not until Sunday. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Sorry for this really long note.

**six.**

            He won’t lie—he spends most of Saturday on edge.

            Partly because he almost kissed her (mostly because he almost kissed her) but also because he knows she’s planning to tell Neal today.

            (Also: he almost kissed her.)

            So he’s not _entirely_ surprised to see her name come up on his phone. (Okay, he’s a little surprised because he was afraid he might’ve scared her off with the almost kiss thing, and also she usually texts and then _he_ calls.)

            Whatever he expected, it is _not_ what he gets.

            “Hello?”

            Silence.

            “Emma?”

            “ _Hey._ ”

            He finds himself sitting up straighter because she sounds like she’s been crying, or currently _is_ crying and—

            “What happened? Is everything okay?”

            She sniffles. “ _I told Neal_.”

            He squeezes his eyes shut. _Fuck_. He’d been afraid of this, but honestly more worried about David. Clearly his anxiety was misplaced.

            “It didn’t go well I take it?” he says carefully.

            “ _You could say that_ ,” she answers, voice thick with tears. His heart clenches.

            “What—” He wants to ask what he said. “What can I do?”

            Because maybe she doesn’t want to tell him. Maybe he’ll leave that for her to decide.

            “ _I don’t know_.”

            He wonders, briefly, why she called him—not that he wishes she hadn’t—he’s glad she did, he just—he wonders if _she_ even knows why she called him. It’s starting to feel more and more like he’s her rock, her support, and it’s a position he’s proud of, and holds dear, and he just—he wants to be that for her now but he’s not sure _how_.

            Also, boundaries.

            (What they are and where they stand is forever changing and he feels, most of the time, like he has no idea where to step and when he’s going too far or not far enough.)

            He glances at the clock—4:30—and makes a decision.

            “Would you like me to come over? I can bring pizza,” he offers tentatively.

            “ _Henry’s here_ ,” she says.

            “I know.”

            He waits. He doesn’t know what Neal said to her but he can make an educated guess. (He’s never met the man but he sort of hates him already, and he’s both looking forward to and dreading Henry’s birthday party.)

            (And suddenly wonders if he’ll still be allowed to go to that.)

            “ _Yeah. Okay._ ”

            He breathes a sigh of relief.

            “Okay.”

\---

            She barely looks like she’s been crying when she answers the door and it’s only the pizza box he’s holding that stops him from taking her into his arms. She smiles slightly at him and moves out of the way so he can enter the apartment, then leads him to the kitchen.

            Once he sets the pizza down on the table he hugs her and she comes willingly, burying her face in his chest. He can’t think of anything to say so he settles for silence, and he wonders if Henry heard whatever happened. If he heard her crying.

            He hopes not.

            “We’ll talk later,” she mumbles, pulling away from him and wiping her eyes. He smiles and takes a step back, putting more distance between them.

            “Okay.”

            She smiles at him.

            “Henry! Dinner!” she calls. Then she moves to the cupboards and pulls out plates, leaving him standing awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his hands.

            When Henry arrives in the doorway he smiles brightly. Henry returns it.

            “Hello, lad,” he greets.

            “Hi, Killian. I didn’t know you were coming over.”

            “Couldn’t eat a whole pizza by myself so I thought I’d stop by, see how your mum and you were doing,” he tells him. Emma comes over and hands them both plates, ruffling Henry’s hair as she does.

            “Say thank you,” she tells the boy.

            “Thanks,” he says.

            Once they’ve settled around the table he racks his brain for a conversation topic. He’s not spent much time around children, and the pressure for Henry to like him is strong.

            “So are you excited for your birthday?” he asks. Henry nods vigorously.

            “Yeah! On my real birthday me and Mom are gonna go to dinner, and then my party’s Saturday and we’re gonna go to laser tag. Are you gonna come?”

            Killian glances at Emma in question and she nods slightly.

            “I am. Will the grown ups get to join in the fun or only you lads?”

            “Uncle David said he wants to play so maybe you can be on his team. Or my dad’s. He said he would play.”

            Killian glances at Emma again at the mention of Neal, catches the way she tenses. He turns his attention back to Henry.

            “Sounds like fun. You’ll have to show me how it’s done.”

            “Don’t worry, I will.”

            Emma’s remaining quiet so Killian continues on.

            “And where are you going for dinner?”

            “Granny’s. It’s a diner but Ruby’s grandma owns it and she makes the best hot chocolate. We got there a lot, but we always go on my birthday ‘cause she makes the chocolate cake that’s my favorite.”

            “An excellent way to spend a birthday.”

            “When’s your birthday?”

            “April.”

            Emma looks at him in question.

            “When?”

            “The 17th.”

            After David’s party but before she reached out to him again. She smiles sadly. She shrugs. _It’s okay._

            “Mom’s birthday is September,” Henry tells him, oblivious to Killian and Emma’s silent conversation. “And the baby’s gonna be born in January. Right, Mom?”

            Emma nods.

            “So we’ve got all the seasons covered,” Killian says with a grin.

            He doesn’t know how to interpret the look Emma gives him.

\---

            Henry talks him into playing a video game with him and so he lets the boy teach him Mario Cart, and then proceeds to lose at several rounds before finally winning one. Henry’s taken to him quite well, he thinks, talking about the baby a little but mostly asking Killian questions about himself. Killian, in turn, asks the boy about school and camp (and tries to subtly ask what he wants for his birthday) while Emma hovers on the periphery with a smile he can’t read.

            “Okay Henry, bed time.”

            “But _Mom_ ,” he whines.

            “Your dad probably let you stay up super late, right?” Henry nods reluctantly. “We still have to get up early Monday.”

            Henry sighs heavily but agrees, saying goodbye to Killian before heading down the hall.

            “Should I—”

            “Ten minutes?” Emma says. He nods and sits back down, and she smiles at him before following her son down the hall.

            He waits.

            Tries to figure out how to turn the TV from the video game to regular television.

            He’s still working on it when Emma reappears.

            “What are you doing?”

            “Trying to turn the TV on.”

            She rolls her eyes and sits down next to him, grabbing the remote out of his hand and with the click of a button accomplishing what took him nearly ten minutes. He can feel her smirking at him and so he keeps his eyes trained forward, but even still he feels himself start to smile.

            He wants to ask—wants her to _explain_ —and yet he stops himself because it’s _nice_ , just sitting with her and watching TV. It feels normal and—

            And the entire evening felt oddly normal—pizza and video games with Emma and her son, talking and joking and _smiling_. He’s so used to being around Emma in moments of anxiety; he’s so used to seeing her face scrunched up in worry. It was nice to see her smiling, and happy, and not so preoccupied with everything else. He’s loath to bring it up anything that will remove this stillness from her.

            And he hates himself sometimes for bringing all this into her life. Yes, his life will change because of the baby, but there’s not much _to_ his life. Not like hers.

            He should go. He’s already done enough, he should—

            But that’s when he notices her hand resting on her stomach.

            The slight swell there.

            Whatever words he had die on his tongue.

            The baby’s the size of a lemon now, he thinks, if he’s remembering correctly, but all coherent thoughts go flying out the window because there’s _bump_ , a small one, granted, but visible evidence that there is a _child_ growing inside of her, _their_ child, and it’s—

            It’s—

            When he brings his eyes up he finds she’s watching him.

            “You’re—that’s—”

            She smiles in amusement.

            “Yeah.”

            He exhales deeply.

            “Wow.”

            The smile falls off her face then.

            “Emma? What—”

            She shakes her head.

            “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

            He doesn’t buy it.

            But he turns his attention back to the television, biting back his disappointment. _Patience_.

            “Do you want me to go?” he asks after a pause. She sighs. Shakes her head. “What happened with Neal?”

            “Which time?”

            “Whichever. Both.”

            He has no idea what’s happening on the screen and he gets the feeling she doesn’t, either, but he keeps his eyes focused on it.

            And it’s _so_ frustrating when she stands up—because that’s it, end of conversation, goodnight, Killian, _why_ is she being so—

            “You’re not staying over,” she tells him.

            “Yeah,” he says, standing up, too. “I know.”

            “And don’t get any ideas, just—Henry’s room is on the other side of that wall, so.” She bites her lip and then walks down the hall and he—is he supposed to follow her? Is this—?

            “Emma?”

            “I don’t want Henry to hear,” she says quietly. She meets his eyes again before continuing down the hall, and he doesn’t hesitate this time.

            She sits up against the headboard, and for a moment he shuffles awkwardly by the door. It’s surprisingly intimate, being in Emma’s bedroom, joining her on her bed, which seems strange given the situation they’re in. She rolls her eyes at his hesitance and pats the space next to her and so he closes the door behind him (because she doesn’t want Henry to hear) and crosses the room. He sits gingerly, keeping a respectable distance.

            “So. Neal,” she says, playing with a pillowcase.

            “Neal.”

            She shifts, and the rustle of sheets is loud in the quiet of the room.

            “He was—I met him when I was 17. Had just turned 17.” She pauses. “I grew up in the foster system, ran away. I was on my own. I decided to steal this car,” she tells him, lips quirking up in a slight smile. “Turns out Neal had the same idea.”

            “He caught you trying to steal his stolen car?”

            She shakes her head. “He was sleeping in the backseat. I didn’t notice. Anyway, we got pulled over, he spins this story like he’s teaching me how to drive it, cops go away, he asks me out.”

            “How romantic.”

            He can’t help himself.

            “Yeah, well. He didn’t win me over right away.” She shrugs. “So I meet up with him and turns out he’s got a shitty family story, too, and we—I dunno, we decided to team up. We were both on our own, but it’s easier with someone else. We’d rob convenience stores, just small stuff, just to get by.” She shrugs again. “At some point we went from just being together to being _together_ , and—”

            His heart is sinking because she was _alone_ and _stealing_ to get by and—his past may not be sunshine and rainbows, and he may have had his fair share of loneliness, but he grew up knowing he was loved (his father aside) and Emma _ran away_ which tells him a lot of things he’d rather not think about—and then took up with a boy (he suddenly realizes he has no idea how old Neal was when all this was happening and the thought that Neal might be older—might’ve somehow taken advantage of her—)

            “You got pregnant.” It’s not a question. They both know how the story ends.

            (Badly, it ends badly, with Neal absent for several years and Emma raising a son on her own and building walls around her heart so no one can get in and—)

            “Well, yeah. But also,” she takes a deep breath. Leans her head back against the wall. “The cops started coming after us and he was gonna go to Canada and I was stupid and 17 and in love with him and he—we—

            “There were these watches. That he’d stolen. He told me where they were, said he’d get them, sell them, use the money to go away. But I wanted to stay with him and—we decided to go to Tallahassee. Get the watches, sell them, use the money to go and settle down and try at being normal, you know? And we decided that I would be the one to go get the watches.”

            He _knows_ this doesn’t end well, his heart aches because he _knows_ —

            “He set me up.” And her eyes are watering and he knew it must’ve been bad but _this_ —

“He said later he hadn’t meant to, that wasn’t—but the point is, he set me up and the cops caught me and—”

            And she was _17_. And _pregnant._

            “Did he know?” he asks quietly. His opinion of Neal is already _exceedingly_ low, but he needs to know if this man (and he’s convinced now that Neal is older) _purposely_ left Emma to _take the fall for him_ when she was pregnant with his child. “That you were pregnant?”

            She shakes her head.

            “Did you?”

            She nods.

_Oh, Emma._

            “I told the judge and they gave me community service instead of jail time. A _lot_ of community service, but I think they took pity on me. Henry was born a few months later, and—”

            “And Neal?”

            “Never heard from him. We moved out here—we were in Arizona at the time—when Henry was two, and when Henry was four we _literally_ ran into him.” She sighs. “He put two and two together, and—”

            (And he realizes it might make him a terrible person but he feels like it probably would’ve been better for Emma had Neal never reentered the picture.)

            “But,” she continues. “We’ve made it work. He lived in New York for a while so he’d come out on weekends, spend a few hours with Henry. Then he moved out here, and he’ll take him for a couple days at a time, usually. We don’t really have a schedule, it’s just sort of, whenever he calls.”

            “And Henry doesn’t know?”

            “No. He was—he was just old enough to start asking about his dad when Neal came back, and before that I’d just told him his dad wasn’t here, but he loved him very much.”

            She’s spent the duration of the conversation pulling at a loose thread on a pillowcase. He watches her fingers now, watches as she wraps the string around her finger and then unwraps it. Repeats the process.

            “So, that’s Neal,” she says softly. He doesn’t want to ask but—

            “What happened today?”

            Because _something_ must have for her to call him, _crying_. True, she’s cried in front of him several times now but he can tell that she’s not the type to break down often, much less in front of people. And now that he knows the history with Neal, he needs to know _exactly_ what happened because even if he and Emma aren’t—whatever they may be to each other—he still cares about her, and her well being, and it’s his child she’s carrying so his concern for her is twofold and he needs to know—

            “I told him.”

            _Yes_ , but—

            “What did he say?”

            (He _hates_ this man.)

            “Just,” she shrugs, “What’s this gonna do to Henry, and why didn’t I tell him I’m seeing someone and, you know.”

            He doesn’t, actually, but he’s getting a pretty good idea.

            “He acts like this—I’ve had one semi serious relationship in the past ten years. I don’t date, I don’t bring guys around Henry, and yet he acted like this happens all the time, like I’m some—”

            “Emma.”

            She smiles darkly, wiping at her eyes. “Aren’t you glad you get to deal with all this crap now?”

            “Just to be clear: I’m not allowed to hit him at Henry’s birthday, am I?”

            (He’s only half joking.)

            She laughs thickly, though, and that’s what he was going for.

            He reaches out and takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her fingers. He doesn’t glance up at her, looks at their joined hands instead, and waits for the air to clear just a bit. Lets it all process. Gives her a chance to compose herself.

            “You’re a good mother, Swan,” he murmurs. “You’re doing the best you can for your boy, and his well-being is always the first thing on your mind. Neal is an idiot.”

            “You think so?” she asks softly.

            “Do I think Neal is an idiot? Absolutely.”

            He meets her eyes, then, and the corner of her mouth turns up in a small smile.

“Henry’s lucky to have you,” he tells her, his tone serious. His eyes dart down to the slight swell in her stomach (and if he feels like _this_ , _now_ , he can’t imagine what it will be like later). Meets her eyes again because he needs her to hear this, needs her to understand this. “They both are.”

            (He hopes the baby gets her eyes. It’s all he can think of as they look at each other in this moment—a little girl with curly blonde hair and green eyes. And he tries to picture Emma as a little girl (foster care, _God_ ), thinks of her as a teenager—living on her own and then with an asshole who abandons her, gets her pregnant, _makes her cry_ —)

            The desire to reach for her, touch her, is always there but never as strong as it is in this moment.

            And it’s like she can read it on his face (and maybe she can) because she looks away, then, shifts away and takes her hand back, and the moment is broken.

            ( _Fuck._ )

            “I should probably go,” he says, half hoping she’ll stop him.

She won’t.

(She doesn’t.)

She just nods and gets up. He stands, too, shoving his hands in his pockets.

            “I’ll walk you out,” she tells him, not looking at him as she walks out of the room.

            He slips his shoes back on as she turns the TV off, leaving them in the semi darkness of her living room.

Silence.  

He’s wondering if he can hug her when she crosses her arms over her chest, and that answers that question.

            One step forward, two steps back.

            “Thanks for coming by,” she says.            

            “Of course.” He tries to smile and isn’t sure if he succeeds. “I’ll call you this week?”

            “Okay.”

            He nods.

            “Good night, Emma.”

            “Good night, Killian.”

            He hears the door lock behind him.

            Three steps back, maybe.

\---

            “ _Hello?_ ”

            “I understand now why you were so protective of Emma,” Killian says. It’s been three days and he’s been turning it all over in his head, three days since he last saw her (she’s barely responded to his feeble attempts at communicating and he hasn’t even bothered trying to call, he’s afraid if he did she wouldn’t answer and he’s not feeling up to that rejection right now.)

And it’s pathetic, really, how few people there are in his life, but David was fast becoming a friend, David was someone he’d bonded with, and he’d like to think that he hasn’t completely fucked that friendship up, too, and there’s the added bonus of David _also_ knows Emma, and David knows of Neal, and if there’s anyone who could listen—and who might actually _want_ to—well.

And he could use a friend.

Which is how he found himself dialing his number when the droning of his television screen proved not enough to drown out all the thoughts racing through his head.

David takes a moment to respond.

            “ _What happened?_ ”

            “She told Neal, which didn’t go well, apparently, and then she told me what exactly happened with Neal.”

            “ _He’s a prick._ ”

            “An understatement, I believe.”

            _Know_. He _knows_ it’s an understatement. David sighs.

            “ _He’s good with Henry, I’ll give him that._ ”

            “I don’t care if he’s father of the year, he—”

            “ _Killian._ ” Killian takes a deep breath. “ _Why’d you call me? Really?_ ”

            Killian shrugs even though David can’t see him.

            “I don’t know. Because we’re friends. And you know Emma. And maybe I need someone to stop me punching this man in the face at Henry’s party.”

            David laughs. “ _I’m not the right person for that because I_ did _punch Neal in the face the first time I met him._ ”

            Killian grins. He knew he liked David.  

            “ _So you’re gonna be at Henry’s birthday party?_ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _You spending more time over there now?_ ” David asks carefully.

            “Starting to.”

            “ _That’s good._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _And things with Emma?_ ”

            Killian scratches the back of his neck. “It’s—complicated.”

            “ _Look, I know I was pretty hard on you the other day—_ ”

            “I completely understand—”

            “ _I just care about them a lot, you know? Emma’s like my sister. I’ve watched Henry grow up. I wanna make sure they’re taken care of._ ”

            “I—I want to do that.” He sighs. “Emma’s just—and I understand, but she’s—”

            “ _She’s got a lot of walls._ ”

            Another understatement.

            “Yeah.”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            Pause.

            “I have feelings for her, and I think she has feelings for me, but she’s just—”

            “ _Give her time_.”

            He’s trying to, he just—

            He wants to know if he even has a chance.

            “ _Listen, Robin and Graham and I were gonna hang out Friday. Watch the game. Wanna join us?”_

Friends. He could do with friends.

            “Yeah, sure.”

            “ _Cool. Well, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see you Friday._ ”

            “Yeah, see you Friday.”

\---

            He and Emma text some during the week, and he can tell she’s keeping her distance, and he finds he misses her far more than he would’ve expected, and he also finds himself in the middle of the baby clothes section of Target when he goes to pick out a gift for Henry on Thursday night (and if you’d told him 6 months ago that he would soon find himself in a Target, contemplating onesies while on a quest for a specific video game—well).

            “Need any help?” asks an employee in a red vest. It startles him so much he nearly drops the small outfit he’d been holding (it’s so _small_ , this child will be so _small_ , he’s nearly hyperventilating thinking about it) but he manages a smile.

            “No, thank you. Just browsing,” he says. She nods and moves away and he puts the outfit back on its rack.

            (A pair of tiny overalls with a pink t-shirt to match.)

            They don’t know, after all, if it’s a boy or girl so if he’s going to buy anything he should buy something neutral.

            Not that he needs to buy _anything_ yet.

            Emma’s only 14 weeks along.

            ( _Only_.)

            He leaves the section in search of the video game Emma told him Henry wanted (because there are a _lot_ and he doesn’t want to just pick one at random, he wants to get the boy something he’ll enjoy) and resolves _not_ to return to the baby section of the store on his way out. He fails in that, though, and once more finds himself looking at all the tiny outfits and pajamas and blankets.

            In the end he buys a pack of socks ( _they’re so small_ ) because the baby will be born in January and that’s the cold season and socks don’t seem the type of thing that will be gifted. He can’t imagine Mary Margaret giving them a pack of socks for the baby.

            (Actually he can, but that’s not the point.)

            The point is he finds himself standing in the checkout line at Target with a video game and a four pack of newborn socks and he’s _terrified_ , absolutely terrified.

\---

            (He’s back at his apartment before he realizes he forgot to grab a card or wrapping paper, he was so distracted by the baby clothing, and he has to run out _again_.)

            (This time he returns with a onesie that has ships on it.)

\---

            “Killian! Hello,” Mary Margaret greets.

He supposes it’s not strange, actually, that she would be at David’s apartment (it’s hers, too, after all), but he’s still caught off guard by it. He smiles.

            “Hello.”

            He knows she doesn’t like him. She was friendly enough when he first met her but ever since she found out about this thing with Emma she’s been downright chilly toward him, and he gets it, he does.

            He just—he’s doing his best and he’s being supportive and he _cares_ about Emma and he’d like for _someone_ to recognize that. He’d like to stop being treated like a villain when he thinks he’s been doing quite a good job of redeeming himself.

            But he understands the situation so he’ll be patient. He can wait.

            “They’re in the living room,” she tells him, and he nods. And before he can stop himself (and he’s pathetic, really—)

            “How’s Emma?”

            Her eyes soften.

            “She’s okay.”

            He nods.

            “Good. That’s good.”

            Mary Margaret smiles kindly at him before walking away. Somehow it feels like a victory.

            “Killian?” David calls. He makes his way to the living room. Robin and Graham are already there, and David immediately offers him a beer.

            “Thanks, mate,” he says. David heads to kitchen, leaving Killian with the other two.

            “So how’ve you been?” Robin asks.

            “All right. And you?”

            “Busy. School’s out so, trying to figure out a place to take Roland has proved a bit of a challenge,” he says.

            “Emma takes Henry to some sort of camp, maybe that could work for Roland as well?” Killian asks.

            Graham gives Killian a look.

            “Possibly. Do you know what it’s called?” Robin asks. He also seems a bit confused and Killian can feel his ears burning but he presses on.

            “No, but I could ask her.”

            “Thanks, mate,” Robin says.

            “I didn’t know you and Emma were spending time together,” Graham says carefully. David chooses that moment to reenter the room and Killian can’t decide if he’s glad for his presence or not.

            “Yeah, a bit,” Killian answers. He takes the beer David offers him.

            “What are we talking about?”

            “Did you know Emma and Killian have been spending time together?” Graham asks. Killian feels a sudden flare of jealousy (he knows Graham is an old friend of David’s from work; he’d met him at the party, and suddenly it makes perfect sense that Graham would also know Emma, and when she said _one semi serious relationship_ he can’t help but wonder—)

            “Yeah,” David answers, as if it’s not a big deal. Then he turns to Killian with a grin. “Are you guys telling people now?”

            He freezes. Are they? They’ve told the important people. She’s told her friends. He doesn’t really have any—except for this lot. Can he tell them?

            Does it matter?

            He takes another drink. “I suppose so.”

            “Telling people what?” Robin asks.

            He avoids Graham’s gaze. “Emma’s pregnant.”

            “Really?”

            Killian nods. Robin grins and claps him on the shoulder.

            “Congrats, mate.”

            “Thanks,” Killian says. He’s grinning, then, and he meets Graham’s eyes.

            “Yeah, congratulations.”

            He’ll have to ask Emma about that later.

            Or David.

            (Probably David.)

            “So when’s she due?” Robin asks.

            “January,” he answers. “January 4.”

            “Could have a New Year’s baby. Roland was a few days early.”

            “Just as long as it’s not Christmas. That seems an unfortunate birthday to have,” David says.

            “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Graham asks.

            “Uh, no. Not yet. We’re going to find out, though.”

            “Well, welcome to the wonderful world of fatherhood. Will you be joining us soon, Dave?” Robin asks. David’s smile falters slightly.

            “Ah. Not yet. Some day.”

            The air about the room changes quickly, hangs heavier than it had been.

            Graham turns their attention to the baseball game they’re supposed to be watching and the talk turns to sports. It takes David a moment to join in but when he does he’s all smiles, as if nothing is wrong.

            (But Killian suddenly wonders if there isn’t something else to Mary Margaret’s disapproval of him.)

            The Red Sox lose but it’s a fun night nonetheless, and though there’s a strange sort of distance between him and Graham, he finds himself agreeing to go to Robin’s next week for another game, and leaving David’s in higher spirits than when he’d arrived.  

            And he’s glad for David’s friendship, glad for the way he brought up the baby and acted like it was all normal and a cause of celebration. In the anxiety and uncertainty of the past few weeks, he’s almost forgotten that this is the sort of thing people celebrate and get excited about.

            And he _is_ excited about it.

            It’s nice to be around people he can share that with.

            (It’s nice to have that again.)

\---

            _Hey_ , he tries when he gets home. It’s a bit late and she probably won’t respond but—

            _Hey_.

            He smiles.

            _Have a good week?_ He sends.

            _Not too bad. You?_

            _Same. Watched the game with David, Robin, and Graham tonight._

            _Mary Margaret mentioned that._

            He pauses. Considers his words.

            _I told Robin and Graham. About the baby._

            _Oh yeah?_

            _Yeah._

            He’s trying to figure out how to continue the conversation when his phone rings. His heart lifts, because usually _he’s_ the one to call her, and with as distant as she’s been this week, it’s even more unexpected.

            And that much _more_ exciting.

            “Emma?”

            “ _Talking is easier than texting,_ ” she says by way of greeting. “ _So Robin and Graham, huh?_ ”

            “Yeah.”

            “ _Robin played hockey with you guys, right?_ ”

            “Yeah. He’s got a son who’s 5 or 6. Roland.”

            “ _Yeah, I remember._ ”

            “And you already know Graham.” He says it mildly. Waits to see if she comments.

            “ _Yeah. I know Graham_ ,” she says after a pause. She sounds wary.  

            And it’s dangerous territory he’s treading, he can tell, but—

            “Through David? Or—”

            She sighs.

            “ _We dated a little. A long time ago. Is that what you wanted to hear?_ ”

            He shrugs.

            “I was just curious. He seemed a little—concerned. I wondered if there was history.”

            “ _It was a long time ago. We’re friends_.”

            He can’t stop himself.

            “Is he the semi serious relationship you mentioned?”

            “ _No._ ”

            He can’t tell if he feels better or worse.

            “ _That was Walsh._ ” The question is on the tip of his tongue when she starts talking again.“ _We went out for a while, he turned out to be not who I thought he was, I ended it. Any more questions?_ ”

            She’s obviously annoyed and that annoys him, because she’s been so back and forth with him and it’s impossible to try to get a read on her and he’s done _literally nothing_ to make her distrust him, and he’s not trying to interrogate her, he’s just curious, and—

            “ _And what about you?_ ” she asks before he can say anything else.

            “What about me?”

            “ _Who broke your heart? How is it that a guy like you is single and friendless and—you know a lot about me now and I know almost nothing about you, so maybe it’s time you started talking, Killian._ ”

            And he knows she has a point, knows she has every right to ask about his past but he’s tired and frustrated and maybe a little bit drunk.

            “You want to know about me, Emma? Here’s my story. My father left us when I was too young to remember. My mother moved us here when I was 10 to be near her sister. She died when I was 13. My brother joined the Navy when he was 18 and so did I when I became of age. He died ten years ago. That’s the family portion,” he tells her. “As for who broke my heart—her name was Milah.” And it still stings, even just saying her name. “She was married and we were in the same unit and I—” He scrunches his eyes shut and wishes he had alcohol, wishes he kept some in the apartment (which is exactly why he _doesn’t_ ), wishes he had something to take the edge off because the words he won’t say are burning on his tongue and he—

He forces himself to keep going. “She was planning on leaving her husband for me, and then she also died. I turned to alcohol; had plans to desert but before I could do so was discharged. After wasting several years of my life trying to drown the anger and bitterness and regret with rum, I moved to here, to try to move on and turn my life around. Is that enough, or would you like a couple of fun anecdotes—I could tell you how Milah’s husband forbade me from attending her funeral, I could talk about how Liam wasn’t even supposed to _be_ on that tour, I could—”

            He stops himself. He’s worked up enough as it is, he doesn’t need—

            Takes a deep breath.

            She doesn’t say anything for a long time and he’s _sure_ he’s fucked it up, _sure_ that she will hang up and cut him out of her life. He is, by his own admission, an adulterer and a deserter, someone who was removed from the Armed Forces and who struggled with drinking. He has no business being around children, let alone _raising_ one, and if she tells him to stay away he will.

(After Milah he gave up on anything even remotely like this ever happening—love and family and—)

            Perhaps he was stupid to have expected another outcome.

            “ _I’m sorry_.”

            What?

            “ _I guess I don’t have a monopoly on sob stories, huh?_ ” He doesn’t say anything. “ _I’m sorry, Killian._ ”

            He thinks of Milah, thinks of the plans they’d had for once their tour was over. Plans to travel and settle down and _God_ , maybe even start a family. There’s an ache in his chest and a taste in his mouth like rust and his eyes are stinging and—

            “Yeah.”

            He hears her sigh on the other end.

            “ _I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. Or avoided you this week._ ”

            His eyebrows shoot up at her admission.

            “ _I freaked out._ ”

            “I noticed.” He exhales deeply. “But you’re right. Perhaps I should’ve shared a bit more about myself earlier. It’s just not a tale I’m proud of.”

            (If she ran _before_ she knew anything about him, what was to stop her running once she knew all this?)

            “ _You don’t have a monopoly on that, either._ ”

            And it’s like something inside him clicks. Like he realizes—they’re so similar. There’s much of their experiences that’s different, but they’re both—

            And he knows suddenly and she won’t run away because of _this_ , just as he won’t leave her. The revelation is eye opening. Maybe they’re both just scared. But maybe he’s just better at pretending.

            “We’re quite the pair, Swan. I shudder to think of the types of things our child will get into.”

            “ _If it makes you feel any better just think of Henry. His parents met stealing a car and he couldn’t even fake being sick for an hour before the guilt ate away at him._ ”

            He snorts.

            “I found the video game he wanted,” he says a few moments later.

            “ _He’ll be excited about that._ ”

            He pauses.

            “I might’ve also picked up some things for the baby.”

            “ _Like what?_ ”

            “Just some things. Socks. A onesie with pirate ships on it.”

            “ _Socks?_ ” she asks, amusement in her voice. He shrugs.

            “It’s cold in January.”

            “ _It is_ ,” she agrees. “ _I’m gonna have to get maternity clothes soon._ ”

            “Ah.”

            (He wonders if the bump will be more visible when he sees her tomorrow. He hopes so. He’s not sure he’s prepared for what it will do to him, but he hopes so.)

            “ _So you’re still coming tomorrow?_ ”

            “Of course. If that’s all right.”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            He wants to ask if Neal will be there but of course Neal will be there.

            “ _I should probably go, though. It’s late._ ”

            “Yeah.” He pauses. “I’m glad you called,” he tells her.

            “ _I missed talking to you this week,_ ” she admits, and he smiles, stomach fluttering ( _God_ ). “ _I’ll see you tomorrow._ ”

            “See you tomorrow, Emma. Good night.”

            “ _Night._ ”

            (He sleeps better than he has all week.)


	7. Chapter 7

 

             She doesn’t know why she called him.

            After Neal left _or_ after he text her.

            (She does, but that’s—she doesn’t want to think of that.)

            But she did call him, both times, and he—it’s starting to sink in more that he’s not what she thought. Or exactly what she thought.

            The thing is, with Killian, she never—she always—her gut instinct was always to trust him. From the very beginning, she—she was drawn to him and interested in him and it felt— _different_. And not necessarily in a bad way.

            But, because she’s her, she panicked and decided never to speak to him again because what if she turns out to be wrong about him, and avoiding him is really easy until suddenly it’s not, and then suddenly they’re in her bathroom waiting for the results of a pregnancy test, and he’s never—

            Her gut instinct is to believe the things he says. When he says he’ll stick around, he’ll support her, he’s interested in her, he’s okay with Henry—she feels like she can trust him. And it makes no sense because she barely knows him and yet the doubt that has been hanging over her like a cloud has never come from _him_ or _his_ actions; it’s come almost entirely from her.

            And she gets that it’s unfair to him. That he’s been great about all this, that all she’s been doing is sending him mixed signals. She understands all that. But a lifetime of abandonment and a less than ideal past experience with pregnancy have left her wary. She was young and stupid when she was with Neal, and she thought he was it for her. She thought they would settle down together and build the sort of life she’d dreamed of as a little girl.

            But she’s not that kid anymore and she knows that happy endings aren’t that easy to come by, and people can say a lot of things but that doesn’t mean they won’t go ahead and change their minds. Before Neal, Killian would’ve easily swept her off her feet. Since him, though, she’s careful to keep her feet firmly planted. For her sake and Henry’s.

            Still.

            It’s getting harder and harder to deny the pull she feels toward him, the way she feels when she’s around him. Like he’s safe, like she can trust him, like he means it when he says he’s not going anywhere.

            And, God, he bought the baby _socks_.

            She runs her hand over the swell of her stomach. It’s not much, yet, but it’s there. She’s taken to wearing loose shirts to hide it, but she’s going to have to _actually_ get maternity clothes soon. She didn’t show this early with Henry, but she read something about how it’s usually like this with second pregnancies.

            She didn’t keep any of her old maternity clothes, either. Mostly things she found at the Goodwill. She hadn’t expected to ever need it again. And there was also—

            She takes a deep breath and gets up.

            It’s Henry’s birthday party today and she needs to get ready and pick up the cake and she doesn’t have time to dwell on all this any more than she already has.

            (Neal and Killian will be in the same room today and if she could somehow worm her way out of this situation, she would.)

\---

            “Henry, can you grab the bag with the plates—and the goodie bags?”

            It’s hot and the cake is an ice cream cake and she needs it out of her backseat before it melts and _why_ did she think goodie bags were a good idea? It’s just one more thing to carry, and—

            “Are you okay, Mom?”

            “Yeah, just tired,” she says, adjusting her grip on the cake (images of it crashing to the sidewalk flashing through her head) and trying to close the door with her foot.

            She doesn’t want to do this, she doesn’t want to make small talk with Henry’s friends’ parents, she doesn’t want the fact that she’s pregnant to slip (and it mostly likely _will_ ), doesn’t want to see Neal or deal with him, doesn’t want to deal with Neal and Killian and David all in the same room with Mary Margaret shooting her concerned looks every five seconds, doesn’t want to—

            “Need a hand?”

            Deal with the way her heart flutters when she sees his stupid face.

            “Hi, Killian!” Henry says.

            “Hello lad. Happy birthday,” Killian says, grinning widely at her son. Then he turns to her. “Want me to get that?”

            “I’m fine.”

            He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, and she rolls her eyes.

            “Fine, here.”

            He hands her the small wrapped gift he had in his hand (she forgets sometimes that he’s ex-military but this is possibly the best wrap job she’s ever seen and it’s a ridiculous thing to be so meticulous about but it’s not that surprising, actually) and takes the cake from her. She properly closes the car door, aware of Henry watching the two of them. She supposes she’s lucky because he’s never been—she remembers reading books about how often kids of divorced parents want their parents to get back together, and she was always worried that Henry would also want her and Neal to get back together, and would possibly try to make that happen, and as a result she’d been sure to firmly (but kindly) make sure he knew that that was not ever going to happen.

            But after his “true love” comment, she’s a little worried he’s going to try to play matchmaker with her and Killian.

            “So what kind of cake are we having?” Killian asks Henry, and it’s just really—it does something to her, to see him trying so hard with Henry.

            “Mint chocolate chip ice cream cake,” Henry answers proudly.

            “And did you have a good birthday dinner?”

            “Yep.”

            They have their own room at the laser tag place since they’re having a party, so Emma checks in with the teenager at the front desk while Killian and Henry hang back and Henry explains the finer points of the game.

            They’ve just reached the room when Neal walks in.

            Of course.

            His eyes immediately find Killian, who sets the cake down on the table. They stare at each other for a moment, tension crackling between them.

(She needs to go ask if there’s someplace they can keep the cake so it doesn’t melt, she should go do that now, that’s a good idea—)

            “Dad!” Henry exclaims, effectively breaking the staring contest. Neal turns to him and grins.

            “Hey, bud! You excited for your party?” he asks as Henry gives him a hug.

            “Yeah.”

            Neal looks at her then and her heart is pounding. She wants to run away.

            “Em,” he says. His eyes dart to Killian. Right.

            “Neal, this is my—this is Killian. Killian, Neal,” she says. She’s really glad Henry’s here because she knows the both of them well enough to know that they’ll be mindful of that fact.

            “Good to meet you.” Killian speaks first, stepping forward and extending a hand. Neal smirks in that way of his and looks at Killian’s hand a moment before he takes it and she wants to be _anywhere_ but here.

            “Yeah, you too.” He looks at her, then, before back at Killian. “Suppose a congratulations is in order, huh?”

            Her hand goes to her stomach almost instinctively, and of course they both catch it. She half expects Killian to do something stupid and possessive, like put his arm around her or something, but he doesn’t.

            The look that flashes across Neal’s face is unexpected. Almost like _hurt_.

            _What?_

            Killian smiles, but she can see the strain in it.

            “Thanks.”

            She needs to get out of this room.

            “I’m gonna see if there’s a fridge we can keep the cake in,” she says.

            “I can do that,” Killian offers.

            “No, no, let me take care of it,” Neal tells him.

            “No, I insist—”

            _Oh my God_. Are they _really_ doing this?

            When David and Mary Margaret walk into the room she nearly shouts for joy—except it’s David, who already hates Neal, and Mary Margaret, who doesn’t like Killian, and where are all Henry’s little friends and their parents to provide some sort of buffer to this ridiculous tension?

            Neal nods in greeting and then picks up the cake and leaves the room.

            She lets out a breath.

            Only three more hours of this.

\---

            It gets easier as Henry’s friends start arriving, and then she can swing into mom-mode, and it’s all about greeting parents and figuring out a place for presents and supervising pizza eating and getting the boys ready to go play laser tag.

            The men join the boys for the game (and the fact that Killian and Neal are on the same team makes her both laugh and want to run away) and she’s left with Mary Margaret and Ruby and the mothers of her son’s friends, making small talk.

            “So how are things with Killian?” Ruby asks.

            “Fine,” Emma responds, picking at her pizza. She used to really like pizza but lately she’s been less into it. Fish. Fish and chips sound good. Also something with onions. And ice cream.

            “Just fine?”

            Emma shrugs and tears off a piece of the crust.

            “At least he and Neal have met now.”

            “Yeah.”

            She’d told them—roughly—about what happened when she told Neal at Wednesday lunch. Both had of course cursed Neal, and Ruby is now even more Team Killian. Mary Margaret seemed to warm up to him a bit, too, which Emma is glad for.

            And Ruby’s right—at least they’ve met now. That’s out of the way. And it couldn’t have been better circumstances because Henry’s presence is a sure way to keep them both in line. Neal may be a lot of things but he loves Henry, and Killian cares about them, too, and neither would do anything that could mess up this day for Henry.

            She’s spared from saying anything more by their return. The boys’ cheeks are flushed (she distinctly remembers hearing them told that no running was allowed in the arena but she has a feeling that that rule was ignored) and they’re all grinning, talking amongst each other. Neal has aligned himself with the other fathers while Killian is talking to David and Victor, Ruby’s boyfriend.

            He meets her eye and grins and _dammit_ , she can feel herself blushing. She turns her attention to Henry when he comes running up to her.

            “Can we have cake now?” he asks.

            “Yeah, sure. Let me just—”

            “Hey, I’m sorry but I’ve gotta go,” Neal says, walking up to them.

            “But we haven’t had cake yet,” Henry says. Emma’s chest tightens.

            “I know, buddy, I’m sorry. But hey, next time we’ll do something special for your birthday, just me and you, okay?”

            “Okay.” Henry hugs Neal. “Bye, Dad.”

            “Bye, Henry. Love you.”

            “Love you, too.” He releases Henry and looks at Emma. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

            _Fuck_.

            “Uh, yeah, sure—”

            “What about the cake?”

            “Um—”

            Killian appears next to her and she catches the way Neal’s eyes narrow. “I can get it, if you’d like,” Killian offers. She smiles.

            “Yeah, thanks.” He looks concerned and she tries to silently communicate _it’s fine_ before she follows Neal out into the hallway. Henry’s already run back to his friends and Killian follows them out, heading toward the front desk to find out where they’ve kept the cake. She turns to face Neal, crossing her arms in front of her.

            “What’s up?” she asks.

            “Look, Em, I’m—I might’ve been out of line the other day.”

            _Might_ have been?

            “I was just surprised by it, all right? I always sorta thought maybe one day you and me—” He shrugs.

            “Neal.”

            “I just wanted to say that,” he says. “I can’t exactly tell you I don’t want Henry around him, that’s not really an option anymore, but I don’t want this to interfere with my time with him.”

            “It won’t. You’re still his father.”

            “Yeah. I am.”

            He holds her gaze for a moment before looking away.

            “I’ll call you later about getting him.”

            “Okay.”

            He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and reaches out as if to touch her but stops himself.

            “Good luck with all this.”

            “Bye, Neal.”

            He nods.

            She watches him go and the knot in her stomach loosens just a bit. She knew better than to expect an apology—she knows she won’t get that—but it’s something, at least.

            She tries not to let it get to her—as if she’d really keep him from spending time with Henry just because Killian’s in the picture. When has she _ever_ said no to him spending time with their son? (Those early days don’t count because Henry wasn’t comfortable with him yet and she wasn’t sure Neal wouldn’t take him and disappear.) She takes a deep breath, tries to get a hold of herself before going back to the party when Killian appears with the cake.

            “Everything all right?” he asks. She nods.

            “Yeah, fine.”

            “What’d he want to talk about?”

            “Last weekend. Said he might’ve overreacted—” Killian snorts. “—and he doesn’t want any of this to interfere with his time with Henry.”

            “You wouldn’t do that.”

            Her heart swells.

            “Are you okay?” he asks seriously. She nods.

            “Yeah.”

            He stares at her a moment longer before he nods to himself.

            “They gave me candles and matches, I wasn’t sure if you had any,” he tells her, adjusting his hold on the cake and pulling the items out of his pocket.

            “I have some in there but it might be better to just walk in with the candles already lit, right?”

            “Probably, yeah.”

            They work together to take the cake out of its box, setting that on the floor (she’ll pick it up later) and putting ten candles on the cake.

            “Try not to drop it,” she teases as she lights them.

            “Are you implying I’m clumsy?” he asks with a grin. She just smirks and goes to open the door.

            As soon as they catch a glimpse of the cake everyone starts singing, and she’s glad Mary Margaret has the foresight to get her camera out because Emma completely forgot about pictures and Henry’s grinning as brightly as she’s ever seen him as Killian sets the cake down in front of him.

            After Henry’s blown out the candles she starts to cut the cake and Killian helps pass it out and it occurs to her how natural this all feels, with him. Like they’re a team or something.

            Of course someone would comment on it.

            “Hi, I’m Jason’s mom, I don’t think we’ve met,” says Sue, Jason’s mom, to Killian hands her a piece of cake. He looks to her briefly before turning back to Sue.

            “Killian Jones,” he says with a smile, extending his hand.

            “How do you know Henry and Emma?”

            Killian looks to her again and _fuck_ —she shoots him a _just go with it_ look before—

            “He’s my boyfriend,” she says. (She’s too old for this shit.)

            Killian, for his part, doesn’t miss a beat, just puts his arm around her waist and smiles. She tries not to focus on the way his hand feels, the warmth spreading through her, the realization that this is the closest she’s been to him since he almost kissed her (which she’s also tried not to think about).

            “How nice of you to come to this,” Sue says, and Emma wants to roll her eyes and get away from this conversation but luckily Killian’s taking all this in stride.

            “Couldn’t miss Henry’s birthday,” he says cheerfully.

            “Mom!” Henry calls from behind her. _An escape_.

            “Excuse us,” she says, because she won’t leave Killian to fend for himself amongst the moms. “This changes nothing,” she hisses as they walk away.

            “I assumed as much,” he answers, subtly releasing his hold on her. She almost wishes he hadn’t but no, this is—

            They’re _not_ dating.

            “It was your idea anyway,” she continues.

            He doesn’t say anything else and she wonders if she’s hurt him, somehow, but this isn’t—this day is about Henry, not whatever this is with Killian.

            He goes to stand with David and Victor and she goes to Henry.

            They can talk later.

\---

            (Ruby can’t resist commenting when he steps up to help Henry open the package for the action figures he gets during presents, and dammit if watching him sitting next to her son and helping him open a stupid plastic box isn’t one of the most attractive things she’s ever seen.)

\---

            He helps her carry all the gifts to her car, helps clean up the room after the party is over. She’s not surprised, and she welcomes the help, and she’s a little reluctant to say goodbye (which is ridiculous but maybe she needs to stop fighting _this_ , whatever it is).

            Henry’s over the moon about his new game (he got several and he’s itching to get home to play them) and they’re standing at her car, having loaded the last of the presents, about to say goodbye. Stalling.

            “Wanna come over and play my game with me?” Henry asks.

            “Um.” He looks to Emma.

And she loves that he always does this—always checks with her first. In everything, he always looks to her to gauge her comfort level, and she wishes she were more okay with all of this and that he didn’t have to but she appreciates the gesture for what it is.

            “If you want,” she tells him with a shrug. He smiles.

            “Yeah, all right.”

            “Cool! See you there!” Henry says as he jumps into the car.

            “See you there?” Killian asks her. She nods.

            “Yeah.”

            He smiles softly and her heart flutters again.

            “All right, then.”


	8. Chapter 8

 

            After Henry’s birthday party things shift.

            He and Emma talk more, for starters. Texting throughout the week remains the same, but they start making a habit of talking on the phone, too. He has dinner with them a few days later—at Granny’s, Henry’s favorite place (and Emma’s new favorite, as well—she’s been craving pancakes, of all things, lately, and apparently Granny makes the best), and when Neal takes Henry for the weekend he and Emma spend some time together on their own.

(Because she mentions having to go to Target and there’s one not far from his apartment so he meets her and they share a bag of popcorn from the food court as they walk around. She buys soap and sponges and detergent and snacks for Henry, and a gallon of ice cream. He buys fabric softener and she teases him about it, and helps him pick out a new coffee mug because his broke. They wander over to the baby section and they realize that they’ll have to buy things like a crib and a car seat and a stroller.) (Which he’ll have to research first.) (She rolls her eyes when he tells her that, but there’s a fondness in the way she looks at him that creates a warmth in his chest.)

(She lingers on a pair of footie pajamas, made of material that’s softer than anything he’s ever felt, covered in small ducks.)

(He goes back for it the next day.)

\---

            “ _So the next appointment is next week._ ”

            “Thursday, right?”

            “ _Yeah. Afternoon._ ”

            He nods.

            “And we’ll get to find out?”

            “ _I think so._ ”

            He grins.

            “Have you any idea—any predictions?”

            “ _It’s not the Super Bowl, Killian._ ”

            “So no.”

            “ _I don’t know._ ”

            He’s not really sure, either. He can’t tell if he actually _thinks_ it’s a boy, or if he just hopes it is. (Really, he hopes it’s a girl, but the thought of having a daughter is more terrifying than anything.)

            “What are we going to do about the name?” he asks, because he’s been thinking about it a lot lately.

            “ _I figure we can talk about that once we know_.”

            “No, I mean—the surname.”

            “ _Oh._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            Neither of them speaks for a moment.

            “ _I guess I assumed the baby would have my name,_ ” she says finally.

            “Like Henry.”

            “ _Yeah. But you probably want the baby to have your name._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            She pauses.

            “ _Maybe we could hyphenate it or something? Jones-Swan, or Swan-Jones?_ ”

            It’s the only thing they’ll agree on, probably. He doubts she’d want the baby to _just_ have Jones.

            “Would you be all right with that?”

            “ _This is important to you, isn’t it?_ ” she asks instead of answering.

            And he understands Henry having Emma’s name. Neal wasn’t in the picture at the time, and as a single mother it made sense for her to give her son her name. But he _will_ be around, and he wants—he wants his child to know he wants it. And he knows there are a number of ways to show that, that the name is more symbolic than anything, but he wants to have this one thing. He wants to have the same name as his child, and given that his family is all but gone (there’s Tink, somewhere, but they barely even exchange greetings on holidays—and anyway, she’s on his mother’s side).

            And it’s strange that he should want to pass on Jones—his father’s name, his father who left—but maybe that’s part of it, in a strange way. His father gave both his sons his name and then abandoned them, but Killian will redeem it, somehow. He will pass on the name to his own child, and it will be a promise. A tangible way of saying that he claims this child, and he won’t leave it.

            “It is.”

            He waits for Emma to speak. He has a feeling she might fight him on this. (It would be inconvenient, probably, for the baby to have a different last name than her and Henry.)

            “ _Well,_ ” she says after a moment. _“We’ll just have to pick a name that goes with both. We can figure out the order later._ ”

            He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

            “Okay.”

            “ _Okay._ ”

\---

            They decide to carpool to the appointment—save gas and everything—so he takes the afternoon off and picks her up from work.            

            And she’s showing more now, and he knows that—he’s seen her, he’s aware—and maybe it’s because he doesn’t see her every day, because they might go several days or even a week between visits, but every time he sees her it’s more noticeable, and the reaction it creates in him is almost unsettling. Because he knows he’s falling for her—he has no qualms admitting it to himself, or to anyone else (he won’t say anything to her because she’s still skittish, but she is getting better and he can see that), but when he sees her anymore—

            He thinks he might love her.

            And it’s been a long time since he’s felt this way.

            “Hey,” she says, slipping into the passenger seat. She smiles easily at him and between that and the way the sun frames her face through the window—

            “Hey,” he manages just a second too late, and her smile turns to a smirk. He feels like a love struck schoolboy and he can feel the blush creeping up the back of his neck as he turns his eyes forward and merges into traffic.

            But she’s _beautiful_.

            “So how are you feeling?” he asks.

            “Good. Henry can’t wait for us to find out,” she tells him. He smiles.

            “I must admit I’m rather looking forward to it as well.”

            “Do you mind if we pick Henry up from camp after the appointment?” she asks. He tries not to smile _too_ widely, but he likes that she’s inviting him in more, that he gets to spend more time with her and Henry.

            (It feels almost like having a family, and that’s not something he’s had—or thought he _would_ have—in a very long time.)

            “No, that’s fine. Perhaps we can even get ice cream or something,” he suggests. She nods.

            “Just warning you, Henry’s gonna talk your ear off about names.”

            “Well, it’s a discussion we’ll have to have anyway,” he says with a smile.

            “Yeah.”

            She’s quiet for a few moments, and when he glances at her she’s looking out the window, a thoughtful look on her face.

            “Are you excited?” he asks carefully.

            “Yeah.”

            Her tone doesn’t match, though.

            “Emma?”

            “It’s just really different. This time,” she says after a pause. She shrugs. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t excited when I was pregnant with Henry, and it feels like—”

            He pulls into the lot behind the doctor’s office and parks, unbuckling his seat belt and turning to face her. They’re early, anyway. (Even if they weren’t—this is important, he can tell, and he needs to give her his full and prompt attention.)

She turns to face him, too, leaning against the door and resting her hand on her stomach.

            “I almost gave Henry up for adoption,” she admits. It’s surprising and at the same time it isn’t at all. “I didn’t change my mind until he was born.”

            “What made you change your mind?” he asks quietly.

            She takes a deep breath. “I just—I never _wanted_ to give him up, I always—I always wanted him, even with how shitty everything was, and what happened with Neal. But I was 17 and—I wanted to give him his best chance. And I thought he’d be better off not with me. But then he was born, and I couldn’t do it.” She shrugs. “It was one of the most selfish things I’ve ever done, probably, but I don’t regret it.”

            “That’s not selfish.”

            “No?” And she’s really asking him, uncertainty flashing across her face. “He wouldn’t have had a better life with someone else—with two parents, and a house with a dog or something?”

            He holds her gaze.

            “You don’t know that that’s where he would’ve ended up. And I know you may not think so, but you _have_ given him a good life,” he assures her. She still looks like she’s not quite sure (but she _should_ be because the life she’s managed to create for her son and the person he’s turning out to be—those are things that anyone could be proud of, and that she was so young and _on her own_ —)

He smiles softly. “He’s a good lad. And he’s happy, and he has friends, and an army of people who love him. And you’ve given him that, Emma.”

            She gives him a watery smile and looks away, wiping her eyes.

            “You’re gonna make me cry,” she mutters.

            “I seem to do that often,” he jokes. She laughs, but he’s not entirely kidding.

            She looks at him, then, a small smile on her face, and he tries not to squirm under her gaze.  

            “It’s different because of you,” she says softly.

            “Is that a good thing?”

            She nods. Lets out a breath and looks up at the ceiling of the car, back of her head resting on the window.

            “I feel guilty for being excited,” she admits. “Because I wasn’t with Henry.”

            “But it wasn’t because you didn’t love him.”

            “I know.”

            He pauses, considering his next words carefully before he speaks them.

            “It’s okay to be excited. It doesn’t mean you love Henry any less.”

            She doesn’t move from where she is but she nods. She wipes at her eyes and he reaches for her, then, the need to comfort and _touch_ too great to be ignored. She meets him halfway, and it’s awkward, hugging over the gear shift, it’s crammed and uncomfortable, but it accomplishes its purpose, and when she pull away she’s smiling a bit. She wipes her eyes again.

            “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” she jokes. He grins but doesn’t say anything, just watches her as she composes herself.

            “Ready?” he asks after a few moments.

            She lets out a breath. Nods.

            “Let’s go.”

            (He takes her hand as they walk up to the building, and she doesn’t release it until the nurse calls them in.)

\---

            They’re having a boy.

            Emma cries and he gets a bit teary, too, because it’s getting more real every day and it’s actually _happening_ and it’s awe and _love_ and—

            The doctor gives them two copies of the ultrasound, and he already has plans to hang it on his fridge.

            (He’s going to have a _son_.)

\---

            “So wait, are we telling people?” he asks as they get back into the car.

            “Why wouldn’t we?” she asks. He shrugs.

            “I’m not sure how all this works.”

            “They’re gonna want to know. And this way no one buy him dresses.”

            “True.”

            He grins.

            “What?”

            “Him. We don’t have to call him ‘it’ anymore.”

            She smiles.

            “Yeah.”

\---

            “ _So_?”

            After they pick Henry up from camp they go to get ice cream, and at some point on the drive they decided to wait until they got to the ice cream shop to tell him. Torture him a bit. (They’ll be great parents, clearly.) And now he’s looking at them over his cone of rocky road with an exasperated look, and Killian can’t help but laugh.

            “Are you guys gonna tell me or not?”

            Emma meets Killian’s eye and smirks.

            “Oh, I don’t know. What do you think, Killian, think we should tell him?”

            “We could always make him wait,” he says, playing along.

            “ _Mom,_ ” Henry whines. Emma gives an exaggerated sigh.

            “I _guess_ we can tell you.”

            Henry sits up straighter. Emma glances at Killian once more (and she’s positively _glowing_ and his heart is _so_ full) and—

            “It’s a boy.”

            Henry lights up.

            “Really? I’m gonna have a little brother?”

            And Killian’s heart stutters, and _how_ had he missed this?

            His son has an older brother. He knew, intellectually—obviously, because Henry is Emma’s son and his son is also her son so the boys are brothers—but it hits him anew, then. His son has an older brother.

            ( _He_ had an older brother.)

            “Yeah,” Emma confirms.

            “Cool,” Henry says. He beams at them for a moment. Then: “So what are we gonna name him?”

            Right.

            “Do you have any suggestions?” Killian asks, trying to recover from his revelation. ( _Brothers._ )

            “What about Peter? Like Peter Pan.”

            “No fairy tales,” Emma says.

            “Peter Pan’s not a fairy tale,” Henry protests.

            “Peter Pan’s also not a hero,” Killian points out.

            “Fine,” Henry concedes. “What about William?”

            “Bit boring,” Killian says.

            “Hey,” Emma warns.

            “Luke?”

            “As in Skywalker? No,” Emma says. “No Star Wars characters, either.”

            “You’re no fun,” Killian teases. Emma glares at him and he grins.

            “What do you think, Killian?” Henry asks him.

            “Well. I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it,” he answers.

            “Mom?”

            “I’m gonna have to think about it, too.”

            “I guess that’s fair. There’s still a lot of time.” He takes a bite of his ice cream. “Where’s the baby gonna sleep?”

            Killian freezes. He looks at Emma and he can tell the question’s caught her off guard, too.

            And he’s thought about it, a bit, but it’s not something they’ve ever discussed.

            He knows that the baby will live with Emma. Of course he will. But beyond that—and the logistics of that—

            “Well, we’ll probably set the crib up in my room,” Emma starts, looking to Killian to gauge his reaction. He nods.

            “Are you gonna live with us when the baby’s born?” Henry asks Killian.

            “No,” Killian responds quickly. “I’ll just—visit often.”

            It’s hardly ideal circumstances, but it’s not like there’s an alternative.

            (Well. There _is_ , but it’s far too early for that.)

            “Are me and the baby gonna share a room?” Henry asks, taking another bite of his ice cream.

            “Maybe when he’s older,” Emma says, and as she says it Killian can tell she sees how difficult that would be.

            Having a ten-year-old share a room with an infant wouldn’t work well for either of them.

            Emma looks at him and he reads _we need to talk_ _later_ loud and clear.

\---

            He ends up at their apartment again, watching TV with Henry and then running out with them to pick up dinner. While he and Henry play video games Emma washes the dishes and starts the laundry.

            (He offers to help but she shakes her head and nods at Henry. “This is good for him,” is all she says.)

            For the second time he stays until after Henry goes to bed.

            “We should talk,” Emma says, sitting down next to him when she returns to the living room.

            “Aye, we should.”

            She looks at him. “I’m pretty sure we can both agree that he’s gonna live here.”

            “Of course. But as he gets older I’ll want to have him, too.”

            (And they’ll have to decide what constitutes _older_.)

            “Right. But when he’s first born—”

            “He’ll be here.”

            She nods. Bites her lip.

            “I think I might have to get a different apartment,” she says. He tries not to panic (obviously she’ll stay in the area). “This one’s too small.”

            “Moving would probably be easier before he’s born.”

            “So I’d have to start looking now.” She looks concerned, but it’s understandable. They have time, but not that much, and moving is an ordeal as it is. “I just—the crib can be in my room, that’s easiest, but not forever. And I dunno how well it would work for him and Henry to share.”

            “It would be a bit of a challenge,” he agrees.

            “But I’m not sure I can afford anything much bigger than this.”

            He knows she’ll turn it down, but he decides to try it anyway.

            “We could always—we could move in together.”

            He tries to say is casually but the words hang heavy in the air.

            “Killian—”

            “Not—you know what I mean.”

            She bites her lip.

            “I just think that would be confusing.”

            _For whom?_

            But he nods. “It was only a suggestion,” he says lightly, and he ignores the way it stings.

            Ideal scenario for him, though? Is that. Is all of them living together. Getting to be around the baby, getting to help out. Not having to have two cribs and two strollers, not having to coordinate weekends, not having to _plan_ when he gets to see his son and instead getting to see him always.

            “We should probably start looking at cribs, though. And—just, start getting all this stuff.”

            “Are you going to start looking at apartments?” he asks. She nods.

            “Yeah. I think I’m gonna have to.”

            “I’d like to help with that.”

            It’s not a request.

            “Okay.”

            “Will Henry be upset about moving?”

            “No, I don’t think so. It’ll hardly be the first time.”

            He nods.

            “Thank you for spending time with him,” she says quietly, meeting his eyes.

            “Of course. Thank you for letting me.”

            The air between them crackles with tension and he wants more than anything to close the distance between them. There are times when she looks at him and he thinks maybe she wants him to, but right now he can’t tell and he can’t risk ruining this fragile relationship they’ve managed to scrape together. He wants her but he wants just as strongly not to scare her away, and it feels like they’re stuck.

            He looks away first.

            “I should probably go,” he says.

            “Yeah. It’s getting late.”

            (He’s probably imagining the disappointment in her voice.)

            He stands and she stands, too, following him the few steps to the door.

            “Thanks for coming with me today.”

            “Like I would’ve missed it.” He means it to come out lightly but they both hear the sincerity. An uncomfortable silence follows.

            “We’ll talk later,” she says.

            “Yeah.”

            He hugs her, holding on a bit longer than necessary, probably, but she’s not protesting. It feels like a victory, however small. (He can feel the bump between them and it sends a fresh wave of something like warmth and affection and _love_ through him.)

            “Good night, Emma.”

            “Good night, Killian.”

            (He’s always sad to leave them but the wave of missing her after he goes is especially strong this night, and he can’t imagine how much worse it will get as time goes on.)

\---

            He goes home and hangs the ultrasound picture on the fridge.


	9. Chapter 9

            “I swear to God, Emma, if you make us wait until the end of this meal—”

            “She’ll tell us when she wants to tell us.”

            “Um, no, she’ll tell us right now so we can spend the rest of the meal talking about baby names and whatever else we’re supposed to talk about.”

            At Wednesday lunch it was decided that they would also meet for lunch on Friday, so that Emma could tell them about the doctor’s appointment. (And how things were going with Killian.)

            (Ruby is very much encouraging that relationship.)

            Emma just smirks and drinks her water.

            (Not being able to drink coffee is a bitch.)

            “You _did_ find out yesterday, right?” Mary Margaret asks.

            “Yeah.”

            Ruby stares at her.

            Emma stares back, slowly starting to grin.

            “Come _on_ , Emma.”

            She picks up her glass but before she takes a drink says:

            “It’s a boy.”

            Ruby squeals and Mary Margaret smiles widely.

            And it’s funny, because she didn’t think she had a preference before they found out, but ever since they did—she’s glad it’s a boy. She would’ve been just as happy if they’d found out they were having a girl, but now that they know—

            It’s going to be toy cars and action figures, stuffed bears and super hero cartoons. Another little boy in the house, with sticky hands and hair sticking up all over when he wakes up from a nap. She pictures Henry when he was a baby, when he was a toddler (he’s so grown up now, and she’s not ready for him to be a teenager yet), and she can almost see another little one like him, except with blue eyes.

            (She hopes the baby has Killian’s eyes.)

            “So have you guys started talking about names?” Mary Margaret asks.

            “We’re starting to think about them. But we decided on the last name,” Emma answers.

            “What do you mean?” Ruby questions.

            “Well, Henry just has my name, but the baby’s gonna have both. Hyphenated,” she explains. She wants to talk about this with them because it’s an important thing, right?

            “Is that what he wants?” Mary Margaret asks.

            “Yeah.” Emma takes another drink of her water. “I think it’s important to him, that the baby have his name, too.”

            Mary Margaret looks thoughtful but before she can say anymore Ruby’s talking again.

            “And how _are_ things going with him?”

            Emma shrugs, tries to ignore the blush. She won’t be sharing that she’s pretty sure he almost kissed her. (Again.) (Or that she almost wanted him to.)

            “Fine.”

            “Come on, Emma.”

            “What do you want me to say? Things are—I dunno, they just are. We talk, and he comes over and hangs out with Henry, and he’s determined to be involved, and it’s nice, and—and I trust him.” She shrugs. “It is what it is.”

            “My question is, why are you fighting it so much? He’s obviously crazy about you,” Ruby says. Mary Margaret looks like she disagrees with that assessment but Emma thinks Ruby’s more on the mark with this one. Still, it’s not something she wants to admit.

            She knows he has feelings for her. She knows that if she gave him any sort of sign like she wanted to take their relationship to the next level (which is such a strange concept because what even _is_ the next level for them? They’ve already slept together, so dating seems like taking a step _back_ , not forward—but they’ve done everything out of order so maybe forward and backward is irrelevant) he wouldn’t hesitate.

            “Because I can’t risk it not working out,” she admits. And it’s true. What if they try out dating and then have a nasty break up, and then he decides he doesn’t want anything to do with her anymore? Then Henry will be crushed and the baby will be without a father.

            Ruby rolls her eyes.

            “You’re making excuses,” she tells her.

            “Emma has a point,” Mary Margaret says.

            “What makes you so sure it would crash and burn?” Ruby asks.

            “What makes you so sure it wouldn’t?”

            “You’re letting fear rule over you.”

            “I can’t afford to just, I dunno, throw caution to the wind. I have to think about my kid. Kids.” God, that’s weird to say. “What if we date and it doesn’t work out, and he leaves?”

            “You don’t know that he would.”

            “I don’t know that he wouldn’t.”

            “He goes with you to all your doctor’s appointments, he wants the baby to have his last name, he hangs out with your son—that doesn’t sound like the kind of guy to cut and run because things don’t work out.” Ruby shrugs. “People get divorced all the time, Emma, and not all of them walk out on their kids when they do. Just saying.”

            “I don’t want to deal with this right now,” Emma says.

            “Now we’re getting to the real reason.”

            Emma huffs out a breath.

            “This is stressful enough as it is, okay? I don’t need to add a relationship on top of it all.”

            “Look, Emma. I’m just telling you, I think you’re fighting really hard against something that could be really great, and that could make you really happy. We just want you to be happy. Right, Mary Margaret?”

            Ruby gives her a pointed look and she sighs.

            “Of course we do.”

            “And I’m happy with the ways things are right now.”

            Which isn’t a _complete_ lie.

            Ruby sighs like she knows Emma is lying but lets her change the subject anyway.

\---

            The truth is, she’s (slowly) becoming more okay with the idea of trying to work things out with Killian.

            She likes talking to him, and she likes spending time with him—both with Henry and alone. She likes when he comes over and stays after Henry’s gone to bed and they can sit and talk. She liked going to Target with him, walking next to him while he pushed the cart and rolling his eyes at her snack purchases. (“Pringles? Really?”) (“Henry likes them.”) (“Henry’s a child who doesn’t know better.”)

            She likes that he’s good with Henry, and that his interest in her son is entirely sincere. She’s gone on dates with guys and could tell, as soon as she mentioned him, that whatever interest they expressed was feigned, and that if they ever _did_ meet Henry, they would only treat him well to earn points with her. But Killian isn’t like that.

            And she almost wishes she could barely remember that night, that she’d been a little more drunk (but she gets the feeling now that nothing would’ve happened if she had been at the point of inebriation where she wouldn’t remember it in the morning because he’s not that kind of guy), but the problem is that she _does_ remember it. And it’s getting increasingly more difficult to ignore the attraction she feels.

            And while part of her knows that there’s no reason they _can’t_ —she’s already pregnant, after all—she doesn’t want to hurt him, or confuse him, or lead him into thinking that this is something it isn’t. They’re past the point where this could just be casual sex.

            Maybe it never could’ve been that.

(Maybe that’s why she ran that morning.)

            In any case, she feel them growing closer (and she’s surprising herself with how open she’s been with him lately) and she wasn’t kidding when she told Mary Margaret and Ruby that she trusts him. Because she does.

            Whether that leads to whatever they are becoming _more_ , well.

            Maybe.

\---

            She’s folding laundry when he calls her.

            “Hey,” she greets, fitting the phone between her shoulder and ear so she can continue folding while they talk.

            “ _How do you feel about alliteration?_ ” is his response.

            “I’m fine, thanks for asking, how are you?”

            “ _I mean, are you a proponent of, say, Samuel Swan-Jones or Joseph Jones-Swan?_ ” he asks, either missing or ignoring her sarcasm. (Probably ignoring it.)

            “No to both of those. And yeah, no S or J names.”

            “ _Why no to those? Because they’re S and J names?_ ”

            “There’s that, but they’re also a little too traditional.”

            “ _From the woman who named her son Henry._ ”

            “What’s wrong with that name?” she demands.

            “ _Nothing, love, it’s a fine name. Just, perhaps you’re not one to be casting stones on that particular front._ ”

            “Fine.” She fingers a hole in the shoulder of one of Henry’s shirts and debates fixing it or just tossing it. “Wait, are you a fan of alliteration?”

            “ _No._ ”

            “Okay, good.”

            “ _How do you feel about Elijah?_ ”

            “Lord of the Rings.” Henry’s not very attached to this shirt. She’ll just get rid of it. “Oh, also no H names.”

            “ _No Henry and Harry?_ ” And she can hear the smile in his voice.

            “It’s a little too cutesy.”

            “ _Fair enough._ ” He pauses, and she thinks she can hear the sound of a page turning on the other end. “ _Have you thought of anything?_ ”

            She folds the last of Henry’s t-shirts and sits down, taking the phone in hand.

            “Sort of. How do you feel about Adam?”

            “ _It’s all right. Charles?_ ”

            “Eh. Robert?”

            “ _No. Thomas?_ ”

            “Maybe. We have to think about nicknames, too. Like, we could name him Thomas but what if people start calling him Tommy, or Tom or something, you know?”

            “ _You’re right. I take that one back._ ”

            She smiles. _Ridiculous._

            “Are you looking through a baby name book right now?” she asks.

            “ _Maybe. How are you spending this evening?_ ”

            “Laundry. Henry’s at a friend’s house.”

            “ _Ah._ ”

            She suddenly has the ridiculous urge to invite him over.

            “What about you?” she asks instead.

            “ _Watching television. Reading._ ”

            “A baby name book.”

            “ _I also have Game of Thrones._ ”

            She smiles. “Of course you do.”

            They fall into a contented silence.

            “ _I should probably go grocery shopping, actually,”_ he says after a pause.

            “Can’t have you starve to death.”

            “ _Would you miss me?_ ” He means it as a joke, she can tell, but for some reason—

            “Yeah.”

            It hangs heavy in the air, but she doesn’t want to take it back.

            (She wants to see him, actually. It’s been a week, and she already misses him.)

            ( _Fuck._ )

            “ _Perhaps you should come with me, then,_ ” he says. “ _To the store, that is._ ”

            And somehow, she finds herself saying yes.

\---

            “Do you have a list? You do, don’t you?” she teases. He grabs a cart before they make their way inside.

            “I don’t, actually,” he says, but he’s fighting a smile.

            _Liar_.

            “Do you cook? Or do you just buy frozen meals and cans of soup?”

            “Of course I cook, Swan, and I’m offended at the assumption that I don’t.”

            “So what are we getting, then?” she asks. He smiles softly and steers her toward the far end of the store. (So he’s the type to go down every aisle? Okay.)

            “Just the basics. Can I ask you a question?”

            “Sure,” she says slowly.

            “Have you had dinner yet?”

            Oh God.

            “No.”

            “What a coincidence. Neither have I,” he says as he throws a loaf of bread into the cart. “You should let me cook you dinner.”

            She _should_ say no. This is veering into _date_ territory. And yet—

            “All right.”

            He looks surprised (and she almost feels offended) but then his face breaks out into a happy grin that spreads warmth through her.

            “Prepare to be amazed, Swan,” he says as they turn down the next aisle.

            She snorts.

            “Yeah, okay.”

\---

            When they reach the spices she comments that Sage might make a nice name and he starts suggesting things like _Pepper_ and _Basil_ and _Paprika_ just to tease her, and he’s still laughing when she hits him on the shoulder.

            (But so is she.)

\---

            He doesn’t notice when she sneaks a package of Skittles into the cart (or he pretends not to) and he just rolls his eyes when she suggests he get ice cream, gesturing to get whatever she wants.

\---

            She realizes that people probably assume they’re together. It’s not exactly unreasonable—they’re grocery shopping together and she’s visibly pregnant.

            (Also, they’re talking names.)

            Still, it’s a little unnerving when the elderly woman behind them in line tells them what a cute couple they make, and asks when she’s due.

            (She lets Killian handle that one.)

\---

            When she agreed to letting him cook dinner for her ( _what_ was she thinking?) she assumed that the cooking would happen at her apartment. After all, any time they’ve spent together (when not out somewhere) has been at her apartment.

            She sees now that that was a stupid assumption to make.

            _Obviously_ they would go back to his place.

            It’s just—she hasn’t been here since—

            Well.

            It hasn’t changed much, she notices. It’s still ridiculously clean. There are a few books on the coffee table (the baby name book makes her heart clench), and there’s a coffee cup in the sink. She leans against the counter and watches as he puts the groceries away (she remembers he offered her coffee, and she said okay, and it was still brewing when she kissed him) and she doesn’t realize he’s been speaking to her until he’s standing right in front of her, amusement dancing in his eyes.

            “Sorry, what?” she asks, feeling her cheeks burn. He smirks.

            “I was saying, you can go sit in the living room. You don’t have to stand here.”

            She shrugs.

            “I don’t mind.”

            He raises an eyebrow, still smiling.

            “Suit yourself.”

\---

            (At some point while they were still at the bar he’d let slip that he’d walked—it had seemed much closer to his apartment than it really was—and she’d called him an idiot. It was still _winter_ , for God’s sake. He played the ‘I’m still new to the area’ card and she’d rolled her eyes at him.

            Still, she knew exactly what she was doing when she offered him a ride home.

            He invited her inside, offered her something to drink—

            _“Coffee?”_

_“Sure.”_

            And she’d followed him into the kitchen.

            She can’t remember what, exactly, he’d said. All she knows is that she grabbed him by the collar and kissed him, and—

            And that was that.)

\---

            She wanders into the living room to get the baby name book while he’s chopping vegetables. She takes a seat the on one of the stools and flips through the book. He glances over at her in curiosity.

            “What about Alexander?” she asks. He shrugs.

            “Eh. Alec?”

            “Basically the same thing.”

            “ _Similar._ Not the same.

            “So Alexander is a no but you vote Alec?”

            “Aye.”

            She rolls her eyes.

            “Anthony?”

            “Nah.”

            “There are some weird names in this book,” she comments.

            “Like what?”

            “Argyle.”

            He laughs.

            “What about Austin?”

            “That’s a place.”

            “Okay, what are your suggestions since you’re shooting down all of mine?”

            He wipes his hand on a dishtowel and comes to stand behind her, reading over her shoulder and flipping the page. She can feel her heart speed up, can feel the heat radiating off of him, and hopes she’s not blushing.

            “Ben?” he suggests.

            “Ben? Not Benjamin, just Ben?”

            He shrugs. “Yeah.”

            “We can put it on the list.”

            “Oh, so there’s a list now?” he asks with a smile.

            “Do you have paper? And a pen?”

            He walks away and opens a drawer, pulls out both (even his junk drawer is organized, and she gets a perverse sense of pleasure at the thought of his ridiculously neat apartment messy with bottles and toys and diapers, and her heart clenches again at the thought) and hands them to her.

            She writes _Possibilites_ at the top and then adds _Ben_ underneath it.

            “Blake?”

            He shrugs. “Brian?”

            She shakes her head.

            “Bryce?”

            He smiles thoughtfully at that.

            “Sure. Let’s add it to the list.”

            _Bryce_ goes under _Ben._

            “What about Calvin?”

            “Hmm.”

            He doesn’t sound too enthusiastic so she moves on.

            “Colin?”

            “No.”

            “Connor?”

            “Maybe.”

            She puts it on the list.

            “I’m guessing you probably don’t want to name the baby after David,” she guesses.

            “Though it is a strong name, no,” he says. She’d figured as much. She pauses.

            “What about your brother’s name? Liam?”

            He freezes and she’s afraid she’s said the wrong thing. He keeps his back to her.

            “I appreciate the gesture but you don’t have to,” he tells her, voice low.

            “I don’t mind. It’s a nice name,” she says truthfully. He shrugs.

            “I’ll leave it to you to decide.”

            She adds _Liam_ to the list.

\---

            (The scariest part of the evening is how easily she could see it becoming a habit or a routine or a thing that they just _did_.)

\---

            They end up watching TV on the couch, close enough to touch but only barely. She feels like a teenager again, almost, except she knows how this night _could_ end and how it won’t.

            (And how it did, once.)

            And she knows it’s getting later and she’s sure he knows it, too, but she doesn’t say anything about it, and he doesn’t, either. She doesn’t want to say _anything_ , doesn’t want to break this moment they’ve found themselves in, with the TV low and the lights dim (because he only turned on the one lamp), the whir of the fan and the heat from him she can feel where their arms are brushing. She doesn’t want to leave, but she knows she should.

            She doesn’t say anything still.

            It’s only when she starts to doze on his shoulder that he looks at her, expression unreadable.

            “Do you want me to take you back?” he whispers. But he doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he’s speaking again. “Because—you could stay.”

            (“ _Stay._ ”)

            (“ _I can’t._ ”)

            (“ _Sure you can._ ”)

            (“ _Look, Killian, this was—”_ )

            (“ _Emma—”_ )

            (“ _A one time thing. Okay?_ ”)

            “Killian,” she starts, but he cuts her off.

            “I don’t mean it like—I’ll stay out here, you can take the bed. Because it’s late, and you’re tired.” She doesn’t respond. “But if you want to go, of course I’ll—”

            “Okay.”

            He raises an eyebrow in question. Even she’s a little surprised by herself.

            “I’ll stay.”

            (The smile he gives her then makes her heart flutter, and sometimes she thinks she could love him, some day, and sometimes she thinks maybe she already does.)

            (This is one of those times.)

\---

            He pulls out a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt for her to wear, and when she comes back from the bathroom he’s grabbing blankets and a pillow, probably to set up the couch for himself.

            Stupid, sweet idiot.

            “You don’t have to do that,” she says, and he looks at her, and she can _see_ the words die in his throat as he takes her in and she has no idea what he sees when he looks at her because sometimes he looks at her like she hung the goddamn moon and she knows he has feelings for her but it’s still—

            It’s a little hard to swallow, sometimes.

            He shakes his head slightly.

            “What do you mean?” he asks.

            She rolls her eyes.

            “You don’t have to sleep on the couch.”

            “Well, neither can _you_. You’re the pregnant one, after all.”

            “Thanks for reminding me, I forgot for a minute there.”

            He grins.

            “We’re adults, we can sleep together,” she continues.

            _Fuck_.

            His eyes widen at her slip and then he smirks, and she wants to take it back (but at least he’s not being weird and flustered about it). She rolls her eyes instead.

            “You know what I meant.”

            “We can certainly sleep together, Swan, if that’s what you want,” he says with a grin, moving toward her, and _damn him_ , she can feel the flush creeping up her neck and her heartbeat speeding up.

            “Don’t make me change my mind,” she tells him, brushing past him to the bed. She hears him chuckle softly before he turns, throwing his pillow back on the bed (barely missing her) and setting the blankets at the edge before climbing in.

            (His bed still feels and smells the same, she notices. She resists the urge to snuggle further into her (his) pillow, but just barely.)

            He turns off the light and it takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. She listens to the way the sheets rustle as he settles beside her, and then she can just barely make out his face a few inches from hers.

            “Good night, Emma,” he murmurs.

            “Night, Killian.”

            “See you in the morning?”

            Her heart aches.

            “Yeah.”

\---

            _“Okay?”_

_And he looks hurt (but it’s better this way, she tells herself, things probably wouldn’t work out anyway, better to just spare them both the pain and mess) but he nods._

_“As you wish.”_

_Her heart clenches and she turns away from him, finds her shirt and throws it on, hastily does up the buttons even as her hands are shaking. Stupid, this was such a stupid thing to do—_

_When she looks at him again he’s thrown on the jeans he was wearing last night, and a rumpled white t-shirt._

_She finds she can’t think of anything to say to him._

_“I’m gonna go now,” she tells him finally. He nods and takes a step forward. She wants to move away (in case she does something ridiculous like touch him again) but she’s rooted to the spot._

_“Let me see your phone.”_

_And_ that _throws her._

_“What?”_

_“Let me see your phone.”_

_She doesn’t move._

_“In case you change your mind,” he explains with a shrug._

_“I won’t.”_

_“Humor me.”_

_She bites her lip. Hands him her phone._

_When he gives it back a few moments later their fingers brush and she hates the spark she feels, the urge to kiss him again, to_ stay _, because she_ can’t _._

_“Goodbye, Killian.”_

_He looks her in the eye and she wants to look away from the sincerity she sees there, the emotion, but before she can move away he’s moving forward, and he kisses her. Soft and sweet. Hands coming up to cup her face. She finds her own anchoring in his hair, and it’s bad, this is a bad idea (this entire thing was a bad idea)._

_He pulls away and rests his forehead against hers and her heart_ aches _._

_“Until next time, Swan.”_

_“There won’t be a next time.”_

_“Let a man hope,” he says, and it’s meant to be a joke but it falls flat. She kisses him this time, just a peck, just—_

_“Take care of yourself, Killian.”_

_“You as well, Emma.”_

_She steps away and he lets her go._

_“Goodbye,” she repeats, and he nods, shoving his hands in his pockets._

_“Yeah. Goodbye.”_

\---

            She wakes up in the middle of the night and they’ve shifted, because now he’s pressed up behind her, arm wrapped around her middle. She can feel his breath against her neck and this should scare her—it _does_ scare her, how comfortable it is and how much she feels like she could get used to it.

            How safe she feels with him.

            She rests her hand on top of his and rather than move away, lets herself drift off again.

\---

(And for all that it’s complicated things, for all that everything would be easier if she’d just _not_ , if she’d let him catch a cab, if she’d never kissed him in the first place—

            She knows that if she could go back and do it all over again, she’d make the same choice.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really on the fence about this chapter, but here it is anyway. Hope you guys enjoy.

It feels a little like a dream.

            He’d half expected her to say no when he invited her over (both times, actually), and when he asked her to stay—

            Well. He remembers how that went last time.

            But he could _feel_ her hesitation, sense that she was stalling just as much as he was (he’s not sure either of them were actually paying attention to whatever was on TV; if pressed he’s not even sure he could tell you the channel), so when he offered to take her home, he was hoping she wouldn’t want to leave.

            And he honestly _had_ planned on taking the couch. He knew that her staying over at all was a step, and he didn’t want to—he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. But it was _her_ idea for them to share, and—

            And sometimes he wonders if he’s waiting in vain. If she’ll ever _actually_ want to give this thing between them a chance. Sometimes he wonders if he shouldn’t just—just try to move on, just try to do away with the feelings he has for her rather than allow them to grow. Because while sometimes he thinks maybe—

            What if she doesn’t, or will never want to?

            In the interest of self-preservation (admittedly, not a strength of his), sometimes he thinks maybe he should just give up. Just be her friend, her partner in raising their son, and nothing more.

            But other times—like when she invites him to spend time with Henry and her, or _just_ with her, or when she shares pieces of herself with him—he feels like there _is_ a chance. That he’s not the only one who feels something.

            And last night was like a confirmation, or something. A _don’t turn back yet_. A _someday, not now_.

            He can wait.

            And when he wakes up she’s still here, and that—

            Because he remember last time, and last time she may have still been here, but it was a close thing. And she’d clearly _not_ wanted him to wake up.

            He wakes up first this time, and somehow during the night they got closer, and now he’s pressed up against her back, arm draped over her side. Hand on her stomach. And he knows he should get up, or at least move away (he’s not sure what her reaction would be to waking up with them so close), but he doesn’t _want_ to. At least, not yet.

            He knows that it’s customary (apparently) for people to talk to their unborn children, play music, even. He knows that soon (if not already) people will probably be coming up to Emma and either requesting to touch her belly or just going right ahead and doing it (and he can’t imagine she’ll be pleased). He knows it wouldn’t be _strange_ , necessarily, to talk to the baby, and yet it’s just so—

            There’s an intimacy in those sorts of acts, and father of this child though he may be, his relationship with Emma isn’t quite—

            So he doesn’t ever touch her stomach, or any of that.

            (Even if he sometimes wants to.)

            Which is why he _especially_ doesn’t want to move now.

            He wonders if the baby’s kicked yet. (He read that eventually they’ll be able to feel it.) He wonders if she’d tell him if it (he) did.

            He hopes so.

            Just a few more minutes, he tells himself. A few minutes and then he’ll get up. Make breakfast, maybe.

            To say the sudden banging on the front door is jarring is an understatement.

            He jerks away (and the banging continues—and is that a _tune_?) and gets out of bed as Emma starts to stir.

            This is _not_ how he’d wanted this morning to go.

            He slips out of the room as quietly as possible and the knocking hasn’t let up (and it’s _definitely_ a tune, who the _fuck_ —)

            “What?” he demands as he wrenches open the door.

            “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” says his visitor with a grin. She pushes past him into the apartment, and he’s too disoriented to stop her.

            “What are you doing here, Tink?”

            “Was in the area,” she says, dropping a (very large, very _full_ ) duffle bag by the couch. “Mind if I crash here for a few days?”

            “Yes.”

            She rolls her eyes at him.

            “Too bad.”

            He’s about to say something when Emma appears, and Tink reads the change on his face and turns to see what’s caused it.

            When she catches sight of Emma she smirks at him like a cat that’s got a canary.

            “You didn’t tell me you had company.”

            “You didn’t exactly give me the chance,” he retorts.

            “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Tink asks. Emma looks confused and concerned and Tink’s timing couldn’t be worse if she tried. He sighs.

            “Emma, this is Tink, my cousin. Tink, this is my—Emma,” he finishes awkwardly. Friend? Ex-lover? _What_ are they, exactly?

            “Lovely to meet you,” Tink says, crossing to Emma and shaking her hand. Emma nods. (He doesn’t miss the look that flashes across her face—relief, maybe? Had she thought—)

            “Yeah, you, too,” Emma returns. 

            “I was just telling my little cousin here—” And he rolls his eyes this time, “That I need a place to stay for a few days.”

            “I can point you to a nice hotel,” Killian says with a cheeky smile.

            “Be nice,” Emma tells him. Then she turns to Tink. “I’m sure you could stay here.”

            “Do you live here as well?” Tink asks.

            “No. I should actually—I should get going,” she says to Killian. He nods.

            “Right. I can take you,” he offers quickly. He tries to ignore the way Tink’s watching him, smirk on her face.

            “Thanks,” she says with a smile. She goes back into his room (probably to change) and he’s left with Tink.

            “Shut up,” is all he says. She grins wider.

            “Are you _blushing_?” she teases. “Have you gone _red_ , little cousin?”

            “Shut up,” he repeats, sitting down to put his shoes on.

            “You _are._ ” She sounds far too pleased about it and he’s reminded of the time he was 16 and Liam was home visiting and he got talked into bringing his then girlfriend to dinner. Between Liam and Tink, Killian’s not sure he’s ever blushed more than he did that night.

            “So,” she prods. “How long have you been dating?”

            “That’s none of your business.”

            He sees Tink once every three years, probably, but she never fails to bring out the child in him.

            Emma chooses that moment to reenter the room, and he hadn’t realized how big his shirt had been on her, but now that she’s wearing her clothes it’s really _quite_ obvious that she’s pregnant.

            Tink notices, too.

            “Oh my God,” she says softly. She turns to him and he braces himself for whatever she’s about to say or do.

            She hits him.

            (It’s not terribly surprising.)

            “ _You didn’t tell me_ ,” she hisses. He rubs his shoulder (never one to soften her blows, his cousin).

            “We’ve not exactly spoken lately,” he defends.

            She rolls her eyes and turns to Emma.

            “Congratulations,” she says sincerely.

            “Thanks,” Emma responds with a small smile.

            “We should get going,” Killian says, and Emma nods. Tink smiles at her again before heading to the kitchen.

            “I hope you have food, Killy,” she calls. “It was nice meeting you, Emma!”

            “You too.”

            Emma quirks an eyebrow at him. He grabs his keys.

            “Shall we?”            

\---

            They’re in the car before she brings it up.

            “I thought you said you didn’t have any family.”

            It’s not _quite_ an accusation, but close enough. He shrugs.

            “Tink’s all that’s left. We’re not very close. I don’t think I’ve seen her in three years,” he tells her.

            “You must not talk much, either.”

            He doesn’t like the implication.

            “I didn’t just decide not to tell her, it wasn’t a conscious decision. We barely exchange greetings at Christmas. Yes, I didn’t tell her about the baby, but it wasn’t because—it wasn’t that I didn’t want her to know.” She shrugs again. “We’re not part of each others’ lives, really.”

            “She’s here now, though,” she points out. He sighs.

            “Yes. And probably not for good reason.”

            “No?”

            He sighs.

            “When I got discharged—I spent a few weeks on her couch. Until I found somewhere else to go. She’s probably cashing in that debt,” he tells her. And they may not be close, it’s true, but she’s the only family he’s got, and he can’t help but wonder what’s brought her to _his_ door, of all places. He tries not to worry. She’ll explain when he gets back.

            (He’ll make sure she does.)

            (And if it’s that punk Peter again—)

            “We grew up together, sort of.” He feels like he owes it to her to explain. “We lived with my aunt—Tink’s mother—when we came here. When my mother died, my aunt took me in.” He doesn’t look at her. “It’s not that I didn’t _want_ to tell her—”

            “Killian—”

            He stops.

            “It’s okay. I just wanted to understand.”

            He nods.

            This is _not_ how he’d wanted this morning to go.

            He parks in front of her building and turns to face her.

            “Probably have to go fetch Henry soon, right?”

            (He doesn’t want to say goodbye yet.)

            “Yeah, probably.”

            She pulls her keys out of her purse but doesn’t get out of the car.

            “Thanks for having dinner with me,” he says quietly.

            “It was nice.”

            He smiles.

            “I’ll call you later,” she says.

            “Okay.”

            They hug over the gear shift, and it’s a little awkward, but he doesn’t really care anymore.

            “Have a good day, Swan. Say hello to Henry for me.”

            She smiles.

            “I will.”

            He waits until she’s inside the building before he pulls away.

\---

            Tink is sitting at the counter with a bowl of cereal, their list of _Possibilities_ in her hand.

            “So what’s the story?” she asks.

            “I feel I should be asking you the same question,” he says, pouring himself some cereal and brewing a pot of coffee.

            “You first.”

            “My house.”

            “I’m not the one with a baby on the way.”

            “Promise?” he asks seriously. She meets his eyes.

            “Promise.”

            He nods and takes a bite of his cereal.

            “How long have you been with her?” Tink asks.

            “It’s complicated.”

            “Oh, just tell me the damn story, Killian.”

            He smirks at her impatience. Pours himself a cup of coffee. Raises the pot in question but she just shakes her head, makes an _on with it_ motion that makes him want to take his time. He takes a drink before answering.

            “We’re not together, exactly,” he admits.

            “But the baby is yours,” she clarifies. He nods.

            “So were you dating and she found out after you’d broken up?”

            “We were never dating to begin with.”

            He waits to see if she gets it.

            “She was a one night stand,” Tink says softly.

            “Her choice, not mine.”

            “But you got her pregnant and now she’s stuck with you.”

            It sounds a lot worse than it is when she says it like that.

            “More or less,” he says.

            “ _God_ , Killian.”

            He bristles a bit at that. He doesn’t need her judgment.

            “Shut up.”

            “So what was she doing here this morning?”

            What _was_ she doing here? What was last night, even? Not a date—she’s made clear that she doesn’t want that—and yet—and yet she came over, and she stayed, and who knows what might’ve happened this morning if Tink hadn’t shown up.

            He shrugs.

            “We hung out last night. We’re—we’re friends. Or something.”

            Tink stares at him for a long moment.

            “So let me get this straight. You have a one night stand with this woman, get her pregnant, and now you’re just _friends_?”

            “Pretty much.”

            “ _Why?_ ” she asks. “Even I can tell you have feelings for her.”

            (He knows he has a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve but hearing it from Tink makes his cheeks burn.)

            “It’s complicated,” he repeats.

            “What could be so complicated about it?”

            “She has a son.”

            He drops his gaze back to his cereal and takes a bite. He can feel Tink’s eyes on him and there’s disappointment coming off her in waves.

            “I thought after Milah you’d know better than to get involved with a married woman,” she says finally. And _that_ stings.

            “That’s not—she’s not married, Tink, it’s not—she’s a single mother, and she has a 10 year old son,” he says hotly. And he knows he’s made some questionable decisions in the past, but—           

            “Oh,” she mutters.

            “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not—you’re right, I’ve learned my lesson.”

            (Has he, though? Both Milah and Emma—unavailable women with young boys. Unavailable for different reasons, but—maybe he _does_ have a type.)

            The silence is heavy and uncomfortable.

            “You’ve not seen anyone since Milah, have you?”

            “Not really,” he answers, stirring his cereal around. He’s not hungry anymore.

            “But you care for her. Emma.”

            He nods.

            ( _Care_ feels like an understatement.)

            She holds up the list.

            “It’s a boy, I take it?”

            He nods again.

            “Not many names on your list,” she remarks.

            “We have until January.”

            She nods.

            “Knew you’d want Liam,” she says. He looks at her.

            “What?”

            She shrugs.

            “Last name on the list.”

            He takes the paper from her, and there it is, under _Connor_.

            _Liam_.

            He’s not sure he wants to name the baby for his brother—not sure he’d be able to manage it, honestly—but the fact that Emma had suggested it, and then actually put it on the list—

            “That was her idea, wasn’t it?” Tink asks softly.

            He nods.

            (It occurs to him that he’s never seen Emma’s handwriting before, not really. He’d glanced at the forms she filled out at the doctor’s office, but this is the first time he’s really seen her writing, and it—it fits her, somehow.)

            He runs his eyes over the names she’d put there— _Ben—Bryce—Connor—Liam—_ and hangs the list on the fridge next to the ultrasound picture.

            Tink sighs behind him.

            “Oh God, you’re already in love with her.”

            He doesn’t even bother answering.

\---

            _Tink thinks Connor is a stupid name._

            _That’s a bit rich coming from someone named Tink._

He grins.

            _My aunt was a strange woman._

She doesn’t text back right away.

            _Henry and I were gonna go look at a place tomorrow. Wanna come?_

            _Sure. Want me to drive?_

_If you insist._

\---

            “Hi, Killian!” Henry exclaims as he opens the door.

            “Hello, lad.”

            “Mom’s not ready yet,” he says. “But you can wait in here.”

            “Thanks,” he says with a grin.

            Henry sits down on the couch and Killian plops down beside him.

            “So what are we watching?” he asks.

            “The Mighty Ducks. Have you seen it?”

            “Can’t say that I have.”

            “Mom said I might get to play hockey this year,” Henry tells him. Killian smiles.

            “I remember.”

            “My dad took me to a hockey game once.”

            Killian nods.

            “Do you like any other sports, or just hockey?” he asks.

            “Baseball’s okay,” Henry answers. “My dad took me to a Red Sox game, too.”

            “Your dad likes sports, I take it.”

            Henry nods.

            “How long have you played hockey?” Henry asks him.

            “I started when I was a little older than you. Only we’d play at the park. Roller hockey, not ice.”

            “Is it much different?”

            “A bit.”

            Henry nods thoughtfully and turns his attention back to the movie. Killian’s heard of this movie. Currently a group of boys are quacking, dressed in bright green jerseys.

            “Do you like my mom?” Henry asks suddenly.

            The question throws him, but he doesn’t hesitate with his response.

            “Yes.”

            Henry stares at him a moment, then nods.

            “Good.”

            And then Henry’s looking back at the TV, attention redirected. Killian takes a moment before focusing on the movie again, or trying to.

            (And Killian’s not sure, but he thinks he may have just received Henry’s blessing.)

\---

            Two weeks later and Tink’s still living with him.

            The story is she’s broken up with her on-again-off-again boyfriend Peter (the irony of their names lost on no one), for good, she says, but in the disaster of their relationship and subsequent break up (he was cheating) she quit her job and decided that she was done with Providence.

            And she’s family, and even if they haven’t been close for a long time, they’re all they have left (her mother having died a few years ago). And she _did_ let him stay with her when he got out of the Navy, after Liam and Milah, when the darkness that threatened to consume him nearly won.

            She teases him about baby names and the things he buys at Target (a little striped hat and a stuffed purple octopus) and asks when he’s gong to ask Emma to go steady with him.

            He just rolls his eyes.

\---

            “ _Mary Margaret wants to plan a baby shower._ ”

            “Does she now?”

            “ _Yeah. I don’t know_ why, _but—”_            

            “Aren’t baby showers customary?” he asks.

            “ _I guess. But who would we even invite? Mary Margaret and Ruby. Tink._ ”

            He smiles at his cousin’s inclusion.

            “Could be less of a baby shower and more just a party, maybe? Invite David and Graham and Robin. Victor,” he suggests.

            “ _I guess._ ”

            “Why don’t you want a baby shower?”

            He assumes she shrugs.

            “ _I don’t know._ ”

            “Is it a guilt thing?”

            “ _No._ ” She sighs. “ _I guess I just don’t want to make a big deal out of it._ ”

            “But it _is_ a big deal.”

            “ _I know._ ” There’s a charge—something like tension. “ _Do you wanna do something?_ ”

            “My understanding of baby showers is that men are generally not invited, so it’s not really for me to decide, is it?”

            “ _No, I mean—like you said, just a party._ ”

            He exhales deeply. “I think it might be nice. Act like we’re actually excited about this.”

            “ _Killian._ ”

            And yeah, there’s definitely tension now.

            “ _It’s not that I’m_ not _excited,”_ she says softly.

            “Then what is it, Swan?”

            And he’s trying not to be frustrated because he _knows_ she wants the baby, same as him—he just doesn’t understand this aversion she has to letting anyone else see that.

            “ _I just don’t like parties. I’m not exactly used to having them._ ”

            Oh. _Fuck_.

            “Emma—”

            “ _We can have a party if it’s that important to you._ ”

            “This isn’t about me.”

            “ _Then what is it about, Killian?_ ” She’s frustrated now, he can tell. He tries not to snap at her.

            “It’s about letting your friends celebrate this with you,” he says softly. He sighs. “I know you’re excited about this and I know you care. It’s okay to show _them_ , too.”

            She lets out a deep breath but doesn’t say anything.

            “Besides. If your friends want to give us gifts, who are we to turn them away?”

            She lets out a small laugh. He smiles.

            “ _Okay. A party, like you said. Men included._ ”

            “It’ll be fun.”

            “ _None of those stupid games, though._ ”

            “Games?”

            “ _Yeah, there are these ridiculous games that women play at baby showers. Like, guessing how many toilet paper squares it takes to wrap around her belly, and crossword puzzles or whatever._ ”

            “Okay, no games,” he agrees.

            “ _We should probably do a registry._ ”

            “Registry?”

            “ _Yeah. We go to Target or Babies’R’Us or whatever and scan the stuff you want, and then people can look up the list and buy the stuff._ ”

            “That sounds fun.”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            (He thinks he forgets, sometimes, that she didn’t do any of this before. That this is as much a new experience for her as it is for him. But this registry thing _does_ sound like a lot of fun, and who knew that this is what his life would come to?)

            “We should probably pick a theme. For the bedding and such,” he points out.

            “ _Yeah._ ” She pauses. “ _Wanna go next weekend?_ ”

            “Sure.”

            “ _Henry’s gonna be with Neal this weekend, and he’d probably want to go,_ ” she explains. He nods.

            “Of course. We can wait for the lad,” he says. (He wants to add that he does _not_ want to invite Neal to whatever Mary Margaret plans, but he has a feeling she wouldn’t want to anyway.)

            “ _So. Any plans this weekend?_ ” she asks after a pause.

            “Going out with Dave and a few of the guys from the hockey team,” he tells her.

            “ _That sounds fun._ ”

            “You?”

            “ _Probably just gonna stay in._ ”

            “Well,” he starts, and he feels like a teenager again, blushing and awkward Tink’s voice in his head teasing him about having a _crush_ , “If you’d like company—”

            “ _I know where to find you._ ”

            “Yeah.”

            He hopes she calls. He’d gladly back out of plans with David and the rest (and since when did he have _plans_ in the plural, where he might have to _cancel?_ ) to be with her.

            “ _Have fun with the guys_ ,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

            “I’m sure I will.”

            “ _I’ll talk to you later._ ”

            “Okay. Good night, Emma.”

            “ _Good night, Killian._ ”

\---

            (Saturday night she texts him a picture of a onesie with hockey sticks on it and the message _I couldn’t help it_. He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was also really fun to write, and part of what I thought was gonna happen later actually happened here, so when I said before that part of the next chapter was written - that’s no longer true. Well, sort of. Which is my way of saying that I haven’t started the next chapter yet so I make no promises on when it’ll be up. (Oh, and the bit I was worried about from the last chapter - it was the conversation about the baby shower.) But I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. (Typical disclaimer about how most everything I know about pregnancy has come from google and also comment threads on articles, so apologies for gross inaccuracies.)

 

            She doesn’t know why she’s fighting this so much.

            (She _does_ , but that’s not the point.)

            The point is, she _stayed over_ , and now she has no idea what to do. She knows he’s awake, too, and he must be just as uncertain as she is, and she just wants him to get up and then in a few minutes she can get up, too, and they can pretend this never happened. Or something.

            But it would be _so easy_ to just—to just stay. To let things happen. He’s good with Henry and he’s half in love with her (and that should be terrifying but it’s not somehow and _that_ terrifies her) and he _wants_ this baby. (There’s a pile of baby things on his dresser and he went back for the duck pajamas and _God._ ) And he’s sweet and he made her dinner (she can’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t David or Mary Margaret made her dinner) and she should just—

            The banging on the door is jarring, to say the least.

            He curses under his breath as he gets up (and she has no idea who’s knocking on his door so vigorously but she’s grateful for the distraction) and she pretends to be asleep as she hears him pad to the front door.

            She sits up and decides to wait a moment before going out there and—

            Wait, is that a woman’s voice?

            And she knows she has _no_ right to be jealous, that they aren’t together or anything and that he’s perfectly free to do whatever he wants with whomever he wants, but it still—

            But it could be nothing.

            Emma goes to check it out anyway ( _very_ aware of the fact that she’s noticeably pregnant and wearing his clothes).

            He meets her eyes immediately, and it’s not _guilt_ , exactly, on his face, but it’s something. She tries not to be concerned (and she’s _not_ jealous, dammit), and it _is_ a woman, who looks at her and then smirks at Killian.

            “You didn’t tell me you had company,” she says. Killian looks irritated.

            “You didn’t exactly give me the chance.”

            “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

            Killian and this woman _definitely_ know each other, but Emma doesn’t think they’re—

            “Emma, this is my cousin, Tink.”

            Oh.

            “Tink, this is my—Emma.”

            She doesn’t miss the way he falters at something to call her (and her heart aches and _why_ is she fighting this so much?). Tink—his _cousin_ , apparently—smiles at her.

            “It’s nice to meet you.”

            “Yeah, you, too.”

            Killian looks uncomfortable. And she’s a little confused because he said he didn’t _have_ any family and yet here’s his _cousin_ , and there’s a familiarity between that that speaks to some sort of relationship, so why would he act like he has no one if he does?

            But she doesn’t want to deal with it, or with his family issues, she just wants to get home so she can pick up Henry and _not_ think about Killian and whatever last night was. And he, of course, jumps at the chance to take her home.

            And she’ll admit, it stings a little, somehow, to find out that he didn’t tell this cousin he’d forgotten to mention about the baby.

            And it doesn’t make sense with what she knows about him because he’s been so—

            He’s already buying baby clothes, and insists on going with her the appointments, and reads _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ and gets baby name books from the library. She would’ve assumed he’d be _happy_ to tell his family, if he had any, but he said he didn’t. But now here’s this cousin who’s come out of the woodwork and it’s—

            It’s unsettling.

\---

            (She finds herself wondering more and more about his childhood, about the kind of kid he was. Now more than ever, she wonders about the little boy who lived with his aunt and cousin, both parents gone and brother off at sea. Who played hockey with the neighborhood kids and joined the Navy. She wonders about this man who didn’t keep in touch with the aunt who raised him, who barely speaks to the cousin he grew up with.

            She believes him when he says it hadn’t been intentional, not telling Tink. She believes him when he says they aren’t close.

            She just finds herself wondering _why_.

            And for all that she’s (still) a lost girl that no one ever wanted, she’s starting to see that maybe he’s just as much a lost boy, too.)

\---

            Emma’s always hated apartment hunting. Moving, packing, all of it. It feels too familiar, too much like before. Packing up everything to go someplace new and hoping it all works out, maybe _this_ family—

            She never had a home and from the time Henry was born, she knew she wanted to give him that. Maybe not quite the “I’ve lived in this house since I was born” type of home, but someplace constant and stable and safe. Where he didn’t wonder if they’d be leaving this place soon, how long this one would last. She never wanted him to experience that feeling up being uprooted. She wanted to make sure he had roots.

            The move from Arizona to Boston was a big one, but he was young enough that she didn’t think it would be scarring. And since arriving in Boston they’ve moved twice, so she feels like she’s done a decent job of keeping this stable for him.

            Moving followed by getting a little brother is a big change and she worries, a little, how he’ll take it, but her kid is amazing and, like with most things, has taken to it with enthusiasm.

            Henry, at least, is enjoying looking for new apartments, and it’s _very_ strange and _very_ surreal to walk through these spaces that she could potentially live in, with Henry running through the rooms and Killian asking questions about utilities and the type of paint on the walls.

            (“Lead based paint, Swan, is a very serious problem,” he tells her, and she might _actually_ roll her eyes right out of her head.)

            And she’s used to the sorts of looks she gets when she picks Henry up from school or when she’s looked at apartments before, the disapproving or pitying looks because she’s a young mother with no man beside her and no ring on her finger, so it’s strange to go apartment hunting with Killian and Henry because the assumption _now_ is that they’re married, or at least together, and that Henry is his—that they’re a _family_.

            Which they’re _not_.

            (Yet.)

            (Maybe.)

            (Why is she fighting this so much, again?)

            It doesn’t help that she (they) haven’t really liked any of the places they’ve seen, and if she’s going to move she wants to do it sooner rather than later because enough is going to be happening later and moving is stressful anyway, and—

            (And she definitely does _not_ think about Killian’s suggestion that they move in together. Not when he tests the faucets in one apartment and gives her a look that says _not this one_ , or when she sees him sitting on the couch next to Henry, both of them engrossed in whatever movie Henry’s obsessed with this week, or when they get dinner and he steals fries off Henry’s plate and winks at her for being the only one to notice, or when he hugs her goodnight whenever he leaves.)

            (Not at all.)

\---

            She finds herself in the baby section of Target on Saturday night. Even though she told him they’d go do the registry next weekend (and she’s glad she gets to put it off some because she _knows_ the day will be filled with—just—she can already see Henry racing up and down the aisles and Killian testing strollers, and they’re both going to be adorable and she just—)

            Just the baby shower—or party, or whatever Mart Margaret ends up calling it—she never had one for Henry, and it’s overwhelming to think about. She’s 20 weeks now (halfway through her pregnancy, _God_ ) and showing more and more, and baby showers are just—they’re for women who have their shit together, who have husbands and nurseries and recipe books and friends who also have those things, for the women who take their kids to the park and mommy and me classes at the library or whatever, who read the stupid magazines. She’s a single mother who’s friends, or something, with her baby’s father, who lives in an apartment that’s too small, who has a kitchen drawer full of take out menus, who didn’t keep _anything_ from her last pregnancy because she was sure she would never get pregnant again. Nothing about her situation is typical, or ideal, and she—

But Killian’s right, it is—it’s important, to celebrate this. To let their friends (her friends? David’s his friend, and according to Mary Margaret Killian’s been hanging around with David and Graham and Robin more lately) celebrate with them.

            When she was pregnant with Henry she steadfastly avoided looking at baby clothes and strollers and stuffed animals. For most of her pregnancy she just wore oversized t-shirts, not wanting to spend the little money she had on maternity clothes. She’d avoided thinking of her pregnancy back then as a real thing, because she didn’t think she could keep him and she _wanted_ to, and letting it be real, letting herself look at the clothes and the pacifiers and the toys was too much. So she didn’t.

            (And then Henry was born and she couldn’t give him up, couldn’t go through with it, and she really has no idea how she would’ve managed if not for the kind nurse who helped her get the car seat and a few onesies, because she had _nothing_ for him.)

            This time is different because this time she _is_ planning on keeping the baby. This time it was never an option not to. This time it _can_ be real, and she _can_ let herself look at the little shoes, and the mobiles and blankets and pajamas and things. This time she can let herself embrace her pregnancy, rather than being ashamed or afraid of it. It’s just difficult to remember that, sometimes.

            Old habits and all.

            (And she doesn’t know how to express all of this, so instead it comes off as disinterest, like she doesn’t care or doesn’t want the baby, when the truth is that she _does_ but she’s not used to that being okay.)

            So even though she told Killian they’d go next weekend, she goes by herself, first, just to look. Just to let herself—

            Just to get used to it. On her own.

            Another thing she avoided when she was pregnant with Henry was imagining what he’d be like as he got older. She avoided wondering if she was carrying a boy or girl, avoided thinking of names for the baby she couldn’t keep, avoided wondering if he’d have blonde hair like her or if his eyes would crinkle like Neal’s when he smiled, if he’d like sports or maybe dance, reading or video games or board games, if he’d be shy or outgoing. She’d find herself wondering and she’d stop because she didn’t want to know, she just wanted to know he’d be taken care of. Anything else was too much to handle.

            But now, as she wanders through the baby clothes, she lets herself think about this one. What they’ll name him. Who he’ll look like. (She imagines a little boy who looks just like Killian.) If he’ll play sports. (And Killian is _definitely_ the type to coach a kid’s hockey team.)

            She’d walked in resolved not to buy anything. There’s time for that later, and there’s the registry to do next weekend. (And she knows Killian’s been getting things here and there and that makes her heart swell.)

But then she sees the onesie covered in hockey sticks.

            And she just knows, somehow, that Killian would love this. And he went back and got the little pajamas with the ducks that she’d liked (and just thinking about it makes her tear up).

            And it’s okay to be excited about this. It’s okay to look at baby clothes and buy them because in twenty weeks they’re going to _have_ a baby that they get to keep.

            It’s okay to want it.

            (Him.)

            So she gets the onesie.

            And when she gets home she takes a picture and sends it to Killian.

            _I couldn’t help it_.

\---

            (She can’t help a lot of things.)

\---

            She’s curled up on the couch with a bowl of ice cream and a plate of bacon, watching reruns of _Friends_ when there’s a knock at the door.

            At first she thinks maybe it’s Neal dropping off Henry (but it’s late, and he said Sunday) or maybe Ruby dropping by to say hello (wouldn’t be the first time, in any case), but when she opens the door it’s neither of them.

            It’s Killian.

            “What are you doing here?”

            And, okay, maybe a bit more blunt than she’d intended.

            He laughs, and his cheeks are a bit flushed and—

            “Are you _drunk_?”

            “Maybe a bit,” he responds with a grin. She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms.

            “My question still stands.”

            He shrugs.

            “I missed you.” And his eyes are so damn _sincere_ and he’d got that stupid half smile, all soft and fond and—

            _Not fair._

            She ignores the fluttering in her chest and the flush creeping up her neck and opens the door for him to come in. He brushes past her and she can smell rum and aftershave and _no_ , it is _not_ distracting.

            “So I take it you had a good time with the guys?” she asks as she closes the door. He plops onto the couch and nods.

            And it should bother her, probably, how comfortable he feels here, and that he showed up drunk, but it doesn’t. It feels natural for him to kick off his shoes, for her to sit down next to him and pick up her food, like it’s normal for them to watch TV together, like it’s any other night.

            (Like he’s come _home_ , instead of just stopped by.)

            “What are you eating?” he asks.

            “What’s it look like?”

            “Bacon and ice cream. But that’s a ridiculous combination.”

            “Says the guy who showed up at my door drunk.”

            “Not that drunk.”

            “Still not in any position to judge me for ridiculous behavior.”

            “I think I’m in _quite_ the position to—”

            “Shut up.”

            He smirks and she ignores him, turning her attention back to _Friends_.

            Beside her she feels him shift, feet joining hers on the coffee table. He nudges her foot with his.

            “Are those hedgehogs on your socks, Swan?”

            “Yes.”

            He chuckles.

            She nudges his foot back.

            A few minutes later he steals a piece of bacon from her plate.

            When he tries it again she hits his hand away and he laughs.

            “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share, Swan?”

            “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to steal food from a pregnant woman, Jones?”

            And his expression goes _so_ tender.

            (She wonders if he _wanted_ kids. If this was a thing he ever thought about before. If he and Milah had talked about it. They must’ve, she decides.)

            “My mistake, love,” he says. And she knows it’s just a term of endearment, he’s used it before, but it sends a jolt through her just the same.

            She turns back to the TV, feels his eyes on her for a moment before he looks away.

            (A few minutes later she offers him half of the last piece of bacon.)

            (And it’s so damn _comfortable_ , just sitting with him and not talking, and she’d missed him, too, loath as she is to admit it, and she doesn’t know what to do with this knowledge that they can just sit together and _be_ and it’s okay, it’s easy, it’s _nice_.)

            She turns the TV off at the end of the episode and gets up to take her empty plate and carton of ice cream to the kitchen. When she returns Killian’s laying out on the couch.

            “Mind if I stay the night?” he asks. She sort of figured he would be.

            “No, that’s fine.”

            “You’re a gracious host,” he says, settling on the throw pillows and closing his eyes. _Idiot._

            “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she tells him. He opens one eye and regards her.

            “Are you sure?”

            She rolls her eyes.

            “It’s not like this would be the first time.”

            He gets up and walks toward her, smirking.

            “You seem to have a penchant for falling into bed with me,” he teases, and he _must_ be drunk.

            “Maybe you just put me to sleep,” she quips back. He steps closer (and when did he get so close?), all notions of personal space gone.

            “You and I both know that’s not true.”

            And he’s smirking and she’s blushing and _damn him_.

            She turns away.

            “I’m gonna get you some Advil,” she says, walking back down the hall. She feels him follow her, and when they reach the kitchen she gets him a glass of water. She feels his eyes on her as she digs the bottle of Advil out of the junk drawer, and the weight of his gaze makes her fingers clumsy as she tries to get the cap off.

            “Thank you,” he says quietly as she puts the pills in his hand. His gaze is intense and she tries not to squirm or look away.

            “Of course,” she responds (and why the fuck is her voice so breathy, _God_ , they watched TV and ate bacon, what is he doing to her).

            (And she does _not_ pay attention to the curve of his neck as he tilts his head back to drink the water, does _not_ watch as he licks his lips after, absolutely _doesn’t_ see the way his eyes darken when they meet hers.)

            (She can’t do this with him right now.)

            She puts his glass in the sink and walks away, not waiting for him to follow. (It takes a second but he does.)

            He closes the door behind him once they reach her room, and she tries to ignore the tension between them as she climbs into bed. His hand goes to his belt but he pauses and looks at her.

            “Is this—”

            “It’s fine,” she answers. They’re adults, dammit. And they’ve shared a bed before. This shouldn’t be so—awkward.

            ( _Charged_ is another word for what this is.)

            He slips into bed next to her once he’s removed his jeans, and she turns out the lamp.

            “Goodnight,” she tells him.

            “Goodnight, Emma.”

            (And they’re not even touching but her skin feels like it’s on fire.)

            She’s never going to fall asleep like this.

            She’s wondering if he’s managed to fall asleep when—

            “What do you think of Isaac?” he asks softly, as if he’s not sure she’s awake.

            “No,” she says in much the same tone. A beat. “Patrick?”

            “What about Daniel?”

            She turns on her side to face him, and at her moving he turns, too.

            “I had a foster brother named Daniel,” she tells him.

            “So no, then?”

            She shrugs.

            “He was always nice to me. But that’s always who I think of when I hear that name,” she explains. He nods thoughtfully but doesn’t press further.

            “I don’t really want to name the baby Liam,” he whispers, not meeting her eyes.

            “No?”

            He shakes his head.

            “I’ll always think of my brother,” he tells her. “Not that that’s bad, necessarily, but—I want him to have his own name. A fresh start.”

            “No being named for people we knew.”

            “Exactly.”

            She nods.

            “Okay.”

            He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

            “I like that onesie you got him,” he says finally.

            “I thought you would,” she answers with a smile. He grins in return.

            “Are you going to let him play hockey? Or Henry?” he asks.

            “Maybe. I’m just not so sure about the timing. I mean, getting him to practice when I’m seven months pregnant?”

            “I could help. If you want,” he offers.

            “I might take you up on that.”

            “Good.”

            (And she wants desperately to be touching him right now, to curl up into him and have him wraps his arms around her, but that’s not—they can’t do that.)

            She’s starting to drift off when she feels it—a fluttering in her stomach that she knows isn’t just from being around him. And she’s been feeling it off and on for a few weeks now, and she knows it’s the baby. But it’s stronger tonight and she wonders—

            “Killian,” she whispers.

            “Hmm?”

            He opens his eyes slowly, and she reaches out and takes his hand. He looks confused until she places it on her belly. She waits.

            “Can you feel that?” she asks. The baby moves again and by the way Killian’s eyes widen she knows he felt it. She smiles.

            “Whoa,” he mutters.

            “Yeah.”

            The baby kicks at his hand and Killian’s smile grows, and she feels herself tearing up (because she remembers when she was pregnant with Henry, remembers when she would feel him move and kick and it just _hurt_ because she didn’t think she could keep him but she was already so in love, and so scared, and missing Neal and wondering what he’d do if he were here, if he’d want this baby, too), and—

            “Hey there, little one,” Killian says softly, rubbing her belly. The baby kicks and Killian looks up at her, eyes shining with something like joy and awe and _fuck_ , she’s actually crying now. His brow furrows but she waves him off, wiping at her eyes.

            “I’m fine,” she tells him. “Happy tears.”  

            He nods and pulls his hand away, and okay, she just wants to curl up into a ball and go to sleep now, that was nice but let’s—

            But then he’s pulling her into his arms and the tears flow freely and _God_ , does she do anything but cry in his arms these days? Not that he seems to mind, just—just holds her like he understands or something, like it’s completely normal for your not-girlfriend-but-mother-of-your-child to fall apart because the baby kicked and you felt it and you had a moment, like he recognizes that this pregnancy is bringing up a lot of things she hasn’t thought about in a long time, like he wants to be here for her, like he—

            Like he loves her.

            “You’re drunk, you’re not supposed to be so perceptive,” she mumbles against his shirt. He chuckles.

            “Wasn’t that drunk to begin with, love,” he answers.

(And she doesn’t want to think about it. She can explain away his drunkenly showing up at her doorstep, but for him to be fully aware of his actions and _still_ seek her out _because he missed her_ , _God_ , what is he playing at.)

He rubs her back and she pulls herself together, takes deep breaths and tries to get her breathing under control. He’s just _here_ , they just felt the baby move, he just talked to him ( _little one_ ). No big deal. (He’ll be the death of her, this man.)

“You all right now?” he murmurs.

            She nods, still not looking at him, content to stay where she is, curled up against his chest. He presses a kiss to the top of her head and it’s such a sweet, tender gesture that she nearly starts crying again.

            ( _Damn him._ )

            “Goodnight, Emma,” Killian says. “For real this time.” She smiles and wonders if he can feel it. “See you in the morning.”

            “Goodnight, Killian,” she whispers.

            She falls asleep almost immediately.

\---

            She wakes up to her phone buzzing.

            _I’ll bring Henry by in an hour or so._

            She types out a quick response and then puts her phone back on the bedside table. Killian’s awake by this point (and she never thinks this through, never thinks about _this_ part of sharing a bed with him, the waking up, the morning after, the _now what?_ ) and he smiles softly at her, eyes still heavy with sleep.

            “Morning,” he murmurs.

            “Morning.”

            She doesn’t know how to do this. She doesn’t know what to say or how to proceed, _especially_ not with how he’s looking at her, and how _he_ looks, all adorably rumpled from sleep.

            (She doesn’t think about how she could get used to this.)

            “Was that Henry?” he asks.

            “Yeah. Well, Neal.”

            “They on their way?”

            “They’ll be here soon.”

            And an hour isn’t exactly _soon_ , but she needs to clear her head, and she can’t do that when he’s here, and the last thing she needs is for Neal to show up and find Killian still here. And while she doesn’t necessarily want him to leave yet—

            “I should probably go then,” he says.

            “Yeah,” she agrees.

            (She ignores the part of her that wants to ask him to stay.)

            “How’d you get here?” she asks suddenly.

            “Robin dropped me off.”

            She wonders if it was intentional, asking Robin instead of David or Graham. It probably was.

            “Do you want a ride home?” she asks.

            “No, I’ll manage,” he says. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

            “Of course.”

            She considers bringing up—but she doesn’t. Instead she gets up, and he does, too, and it’s not—it’s not awkward, exactly, but it’s not completely comfortable, either. There’s a strange sort of tension but that’s been happening more and more, and _why is she still fighting this_.

            (Whatever this is.)

            She walks him to the living room, watches as he puts his shoes on. His hair’s messier than normal and his shirt’s wrinkled and _God_ , her sheets are probably going to smell like him now.

            “Have a good day, Swan,” he says.

            “Yeah, you, too.” She smiles. “Oh, the appointment is Tuesday.”

            “Right. 3:30?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I’ll meet you there,” he says.

            “Okay.”

            She hugs him, this time, because it’s occurred to her that almost any instance of physical contact between them is initiated by him, and maybe it’s because she feels like she’s shooing him out, or maybe because she’s realizing just how deep his feelings for her must be, but she suddenly needs to reassure him, somehow, that she’s not—that she’s not _opposed_ to—whatever.

            She’s just scared.

            He’s smiling at her when he pulls away, and she thinks he gets it.

            “Bye, Killian,” she says.

            “See you, Emma.”

\---

            And yeah, she’s definitely falling in love with him, and it’s not even a surprise to realize it.

            (It is, after all, the reason she left in the first place.)


	12. Chapter 12

 

            It’s Robin who offers.

            And he’s not sure what, _exactly_ , possesses him to do it. All he knows is that he’s half drunk and all he’s been able to think about since that text is Emma, and it’s Robin, not David or Graham, so rather than give directions to his apartment he tells Robin how to get to hers.

            (It’s possibly stupid and she’s possibly already asleep but he’s just drunk enough that it’s not so terrible an idea that he talks himself out of it.)

            And she seems surprised to see him (and she’s _beautiful_ and he thinks he forgets, sometimes, but he’s just aware enough to know that saying it is probably a bad idea) but she doesn’t tell him to go away (even though she figures out pretty quick that he’s drunk, but he’s not _that_ drunk), she lets him come in (and maybe he’s imagining it but he _swears_ her whole demeanor shifts when he tells her he missed her) (because it’s true), and maybe, just _maybe_ he’s starting to win her over.

            And he has no idea what they’re watching on TV, he’s not paying attention, really, he’s just soaking up the moment, trying to commit to memory what it feels like to come (home?) to her and sit with her on the couch, just barely touching but it’s enough, it’s all he can focus on, and her ridiculous socks and how she nudges his foot back when he nudges hers, and for as much as he’d like to kiss her again (he’d _very much_ like to kiss her again) he likes this, too, this comfort or familiarity, this easiness between them where it doesn’t _matter_ what’s on TV or what they’re doing so long as it’s together, so long as he can be beside her, and he—

            He is _gone_ , there’s no turning back, he’s just _gone_ for her.

            And she’s _pregnant_ and he thinks he forgets that sometimes, too, or doesn’t _forget_ , but sometimes when they’re talking on the phone or texting he forgets that this—that the entire reason they’re in each others’ lives at all is because of this baby, this person ( _person_ ) that is _theirs_ —and then he sees her again or she brings it up or he does and he remembers, and it hits him all over again, she is _pregnant_ and it is _his_ and—

            (And he’s not stupid or drunk enough to tell her he loves her when she hands him half a piece of bacon but it’s a near thing.)

            He hadn’t come over with the intention of staying (not the _conscious_ intention, anyway), and he certainly doesn’t presume to invite himself into her bed, so when she—

            (It feels more and more like coming _home_ , rather than stopping by for a visit and getting to stay. It feels like _something_ , with the teasing and the flirting (and maybe he shouldn’t but it’s just too easy) and her giving him Advil and sharing a bed and he wants this with her so much it aches but he will wait, he will be patient, he can do that—)

            “Good night.”

            “Good night, Emma.”

            And maybe he’s imagining it but she seems tense, and he can’t sleep, he’s too keyed up, thoughts swirling and possibilities and steps forward and names and—

            “What do you think of Isaac?” he asks quietly.

            She’s not fond of it.

            (He isn’t either, to be honest.)

            “Patrick?” she questions.

            All he can think of is _saint_ Patrick, and no, thanks.

            “Daniel?” he offers instead.

            And that’s when she shifts, turns toward him, and he mirrors her.

            She tells him about a foster brother called Daniel and he wonders how many there were, how many foster brothers and sisters, how many people she’d grown up with or around, who was kind to her and who she was happy to get away from, and he doesn’t talk about Liam, ever, as a rule, he can’t, it’s too—

            But it feels safe to talk, then.

            Not that he says much.

            He just—

            And maybe it makes him a terrible person, a terrible brother—his instinct probably ought to be, to want to name his son for his brother, but it isn’t, his knee jerk reaction is _no_ , because he can’t hear the name and not think of him, and it’s fond memories but it’s also pain, it’s heart ache and memories of that terrible downward spiral, and he loved Milah, _God_ , he loved her, but he wonders—

            He wonders if he’d’ve taken up with a married woman had his brother been alive.

            As much as he loved her, the _guilt_ , the knowledge that she was still married, that she had a son, that whatever their plans had been, her plans to leave her husband, she _hadn’t_ yet, and he—

            He doesn’t want that thought process every time he sees his son, or hears his name. He wants a fresh start. (The whole reason he came to this bloody city was for a fresh start).

            She doesn’t question him further, doesn’t ask why. Just agrees.

            (He imagines she’s as familiar with ghosts as he is.)

\---

            And _holy shit_ , the baby moved—kicked—and he _felt_ it.

            And—

            Just—

            And Emma—

            _Emma_.

            (And telling her he loves her in _this_ moment is probably also a bad idea—telling her at all is probably not something he should do, or think about doing, but _God_ , he does, he loves her, loves her heart and her strength and the way she rolls her eyes at him and smirks at him and the way she loves her son, the way she bites her lip when she’s nervous and how she _lets_ him comfort her like this, how she trusts him enough for this, how she’s letting him in and sharing pieces of herself and how she didn’t push him away when he did the same. He _loves_ her.)

            ( _Fuck._ )

\---

            He wakes up when her phone goes off but takes a few moments to open his eyes. His mouth is dry but there’s no headache, so that’s a victory. (But he wasn’t that drunk, remember?) Emma’s typing something out when he first sees her, and she looks over at him. Smiles slightly. He smiles, too.

            “Morning,” he says.

            “Morning,” she echoes.

            He wants to be touching her. It’s not a new impulse. It’s still one he resists. (Every step forward has the potential to become three steps back and he rather _likes_ where they’re headed and he’d rather not mess that up.)

            “Was that Henry?” he asks, for want of something to say. She nods.

            “Yeah. Well, Neal.”

            “They on their way?”

            “They’ll be here soon.”

            And she looks uncertain, and there’s a bit of an ache because he is _sure_ about this and he wishes she were, too. Because he’s pretty sure she _does_ feel something for him, and he wishes she would just—

            But he _did_ show up on her doorstep, unannounced, and if she’s now regretting her decision to let him stay (at the very least _here_ ), then he can—he won’t force his company on her.

            (And he can’t imagine it going over well if Neal finds him here, anyway. Not that Neal should get to have any sort of opinion on what Emma does with her time, or who she spends it with, but he seems like the sort of bloke who’d state his irrelevant opinion anyway.)

            (Also it might confuse Henry. Or something.)

            (What exactly does Henry think is going on? Or does he not care because he’s a 10 year old boy with infinitely more interesting things to think about than the relationship between his mother and the father of his unborn brother?)

            “I should probably go then,” he tells her, but he doesn’t move.

            “Yeah,” she agrees, but she doesn’t, either.

            (It might be nothing but it _might_ be progress, and he’s not been a very hopeful man these past years but there’s something about Emma that brings out the best in him.)

            (Which is only _slightly_ terrifying.)

            “How’d you get here?” she asks, as if the logistics of him knocking on her door drunk have only just occurred to her. He feels himself flush a bit.

            (He was definitely a bit drunk.)

            “Robin dropped me off,” he admits.

            (Dear God, he was offered a ride home and gave _her_ address. What sort of idiot does that?)

            “Do you want a ride home?” she asks.

            And he wants to say yes. He wants to spend more time with her, even if it’s just a few minutes. But he should probably—he needs to clear his head. And Henry will be here soon, and she should be here when they arrive.

            (He suddenly wonders if Neal has a key to this apartment and the thought won’t go away and it wouldn’t be unreasonable, he supposes, for Neal to have a key to Emma’s apartment but the idea of it rubs him wrong, and the idea of Emma getting home and Neal sitting on the couch with Henry—)

            (He’s being ridiculous.)

            “No, I’ll manage,” he assures her.

They still haven’t moved yet, and it doesn’t matter that they’re not touching (it doesn’t matter _much_ ), he still feels warm and contented and it’s _nice_ , just laying here with her, and for as much as he doesn’t want to leave, maybe she doesn’t want him to, either.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he says quietly.

            “Of course.”

            And he could kiss her, he could lean in—they’re not terribly far apart, it wouldn’t take much, he could—and she probably wouldn’t stop him, she’d probably kiss him back—and he wants to, _God_ , he wants to, but—

            He can’t. He won’t.

            If this is going to happen, it will be—it will be for her to decide. He won’t force her hand. If they’re going to do this—properly, actually, try at being a couple—

            It will be because she wants him.

            Not because he’s made the first move, not because of the baby, no because it would be easier this way.

            He wants to win her heart.

            So he’ll wait.  

\---

            She hugs him goodbye. _She_ hugs _him_ , and it shouldn’t mean as much as it does, probably, but—

            “Bye, Killian.”

            “See you, Emma.”

            And he is _gone_ , so gone for her.

\---            

            “And just where have you been, young man?” Tink says in a mock authoritative voice when he stumbles into his apartment. It startles him out of his thoughts a bit, as he’d sort of forgotten about her.

Perhaps he should’ve told her he wasn’t coming home last night. But he’s not 16 anymore and he doesn’t need to report back to his cousin about his whereabouts so he pushes the thought aside and heads to the kitchen to get water. There are too many thoughts swirling about in his head, and his mouth is dry, and he doesn’t feel like dealing with Tink’s teasing but she doesn’t let up, trailing after him.

            “Oy, answer me, you git. I was worried you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

            “Because this town is littered with ditches.”

            She hits him on the shoulder.

            “Where were you?”

            “I was with Emma,” he says,  and he can’t help the smile there. Tink’s eyes widen.

            “You—”

            “Not like—not like that,” he clarifies. “Just—I went over last night, and she let me stay.”

            (She let him _stay_. And she _hugged_ him.)

            (He’s a lovestruck teenager all over again.)

            “I thought you went out with hockey friends or something,” Tink says.

            “I did.”

            Tink eyes him for a moment before sighing.

            “Just be careful,” she says finally.

            “What are you talking about?” he asks. She’s been— _encouraging_ him, or something. Certainly teasing. Should she be—excited with him? Because it’s a step, it’s—it’s progress, it’s proof that—

            “I don’t want to see you get hurt again, Killian,” she says with a small shrug.

            He opens his mouth to respond but no words come out.  

            She smiles, patting him on the arm before disappearing into the living room.

            And just like that, his good mood is gone.

\---

            He understands what Tink is getting at. She’s probably afraid Emma is leading him on. That he’s getting his hopes up. But it’s not like that—and he _knows_ what that sounds like, he knows how weak and defensive and—

            But it’s _true_. Whatever he and Emma are, whatever’s happening between them, it’s not—she’s not—

            And he half wants to tell Tink it’s none of her business and half wants to explain, but instead he spends the day cleaning his apartment (Tink is not nearly as neat as he is), brooding and unsettled and they’d made such progress and now he’s back in that _this could mean nothing and she may never return your feelings_ place and he very much does _not_ want to live there anymore.

            Tink means well, he knows that.

            But—

            He’ll be _fine_.

\---

            (He wants to text her but he has nothing to say so he doesn’t.)

            (He’ll see her Tuesday anyway.)

\---

            Except—

\---

            He doesn’t even bother telling anyone he’s taking a ten, (they’re forcing him to stay so he’ll bloody well take his ten minute break, thanks), just slips off to the break room, pulls out his phone and stares at the screen a moment before pulling up his contacts.

            “ _Hello?_ ”

            “Hey,” he says. He scratches the back of his neck.

            “ _Hey. What’s up?_ ”

            He takes a deep breath.

            “I can’t come to the appointment today.”

            “ _Oh. Okay._ ”

            And she doesn’t _sound_ upset but that doesn’t mean—and he doesn’t want her to think he’s just backing out for no reason, so he rushes to explain.

            “Work’s—I can’t leave, even though I cleared it with my boss last week, and—”

            “ _It’s fine_.”

            And he knows it’s not a big deal, missing going with her to the appointment, but it’s the principle of the thing. It’s the fact that she had no one to go with her before, and he’d been determined that she wouldn’t have to be alone this time—had all but promised he’d go with her to these things—and he knows that one appointment isn’t much in the scheme of things, but it’s—

            He told her he would, and now he’s backing out.

            Bad form, to say the least.

            “Sorry.”

            “ _It’s really not a huge deal. Work stuff comes up, I get it._ ” She pauses. His boss peeks his head into the break room, taps his watch, and Killian nods.

            “I’ve gotta get back,” he tells her.

            “ _Okay. I’ll call you after,_ ” she promises.

            “Okay.”

            “ _What time are you off?_ ”

            “Around 5:30, probably.” Hopefully.

            “ _I’ll talk to you around 5:30, then_ ,” she says. He nods. He’d so wanted to see her today, too. Maybe he can stop by after work? But before he can ask— “ _Bye, Killian._ ”

            “Bye.”

            He sighs. He’ll see her Saturday, at least.

\---

            He leaves at 5:30 on the dot, and no, he hasn’t been checking his phone for the past fifteen minutes, that would be ridiculous. He waves goodbye to Smee and Jefferson as he heads to the parking lot, smell of the sea strong and the sun beginning to set, but he stops dead in his tracks when he nears his car.

            _Emma._

            “Hey there, sailor,” she says with a smirk. He grins as he moves toward her, the shock wearing off, replaced with a warm, happy feeling.

            “Wasn’t expecting to see you today,” he tells her, joining her where she’s leaning on the hood of his car.

            She shrugs.

            “I brought food from Granny’s,” she says, motioning to the plastic bag of styrofoam containers.

            “Oh?”

            “I was hungry,” she says nonchalantly. He smirks. He has a feeling there’s more to it than that but he keeps the thought to himself.

            “Pancakes again?” he asks instead.

            “Yeah.”

            And he can’t seem to stop smiling.

            “There’s a park over there,” he says. “We could eat there if you’d like.”

            “Okay.”

            He grabs the bag and leads her to the small park by the parking lot. Well, less of a park and more a swatch of grass with a few benches.

            “I come out here on my lunch break some days,” he tells her as they settle at a table.

            “Yeah?”

            He nods.

            He opens the box she hands him and finds a burger and fries. His usual order the few times they’ve been to Granny’s. He smiles to himself.

            “So how was the appointment?” he asks.

            “Fine. Boring. Oh, but more pictures,” she says. “I’ve got one for you in the car.”

            He nods, grinning.

            “How was work?”

            “Fine. Also boring,” he tells her. “Where’s Henry?”

            “With David and Mary Margaret.” She shrugs. “I figured you’d want to hear about the appointment.”

            “You figured right,” he says. He doesn’t point out that she could’ve easily just called him. “So everything’s okay?”

            “Yeah. Although now he wants me to come in every two weeks.”

            He nods.

            “But the baby’s fine?”

            She smiles. “Yes. He said everything seems fine.”

            “ _Seems?_ ”

            She rolls her eyes and doesn’t answer.

            They make random small talk as they eat, and he lets her steal some of his fries, and he can’t help the smile that won’t seem to go away, because _she_ sought him out, came and met him at work, brought dinner and found someone to watch Henry, to talk to him about something she could’ve easily called or text him about.

            “So, two weeks?” he asks as they walk back to their cars.

            “Yeah.”

            “I’ll be there,” he promises. “I would’ve today—”

            “I told you before, it’s not a big deal. Stuff comes up,” she answers with a shrug. He takes a step closer.

            “Regardless, I want to be with you for all of this. Boring though it may be.” He meets her eyes, willing her to see that he means his words. She holds his gaze for a moment and nods almost imperceptibly before looking away.

            “Thanks for dinner,” he adds after a moment.

            She shrugs.

            “We were both gonna eat anyway.”

            “And for coming to see me,” he says with a smile, stepping closer.

            She shoves her hands in her pockets.

            “Well, you sounded so upset about not getting to go with me,” she tells him with a smile. She shrugs again then, avoiding his eyes. “And, maybe I missed you, too.”

            (He knew it.)

            (And hearing her say it makes his heart beat faster.)

            She looks up at him then and rolls her eyes.

            “Shut up.”

            “I didn’t say anything.”

            “You didn’t have to.”

            His grin widens, if possible, and he pulls her into a hug.

            “I missed you too, Swan,” he assures her. She doesn’t say anything but he feels her relax slightly. (He might be imagining the “ _good_ ” muttered into his shoulder.) He lets her go and takes a step back. “Have a good night, Emma.”

            “Yeah, you, too.”

            She opens her door and he turns to go, but—

            “Killian.”

            He turns to her again. She’s smiling softly.

            “Figured you might want this.”

            She’s holding out an ultrasound photo and he takes it, warmth and affection rushing through him, and when he looks up again she’s watching him with a tender expression he’s not seen before.

            “Good night, Killian,” she says quietly.

            “Good night, Emma,” he returns.

            She offers him one last smile before she goes.

\---

            (He hangs the new picture on the fridge when he gets home.)

\---

            “So what time do you want me to pick you guys up tomorrow?”

            “ _Why do you always assume you’ll drive? Maybe I want to drive._ ”

            “Do you?”

            “ _That’s not the point._ ”

            “Then what is the point?”

            “ _The point is I don’t want you to assume—_ ”

            He sighs heavily, cutting her off.

            “What time should I be at your apartment so we can argue about who’s driving to Babies’R’Us?”

            She pauses.

            “ _Ten? Is that too early?_ ”

            “Ten’s fine.”

            “ _Okay._ ”

            He pauses.

            “I’ve been researching cribs and car seats.”

            “ _Of course you have._ ”

            On the other line he hears Henry shout for her and she sighs.

            “ _I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow?_ ”

            “See you then.”

\---  

            (And Emma may roll her eyes at him, and Tink may tease him, but he prints out his lists, filled with the top rated car seats and strollers and cribs, because these things are important, and safety is important, and he wants only the best for his son and—

            And it never fails to send a jolt through him, those thoughts, the moments when he finds himself thinking _my son_ or _our son_.

So, yes, he shows up at Emma’s apartment with a list, and Emma smiles fondly at him and looks over it on the way to the store.)

\---

(He drives, for the record.)

\---

            And it’s a little overwhelming—the store and the music and all the expectant parents wandering around. The associate at guest services assumes they’re married, which is awkward for a moment, getting them set up at first just as “Jones.” In the end they’re registered as “Swan-Jones” (and they decide, at that point, that that’s the order it will be for the baby, too) and given a scanner.

Henry goes a little scan crazy and he and Emma argue over bedding (and, by association, the theme).

            (“Blue is boring and expected.”)

            (“It’s a strong color.”)

            (“Since when are colors strong?”)

            They agree right off the bat that they won’t be going for the sports theme, or the alphabet one, or the monkeys. Killian puts his foot down when she suggests the airplane theme.

            (“ _Planes?_ ”)

            (“Sorry, I forgot I’m dealing with Captain Hook over here.”)

            But after spending an inordinate amount of time talking about colors and patterns and the pros and cons of animals, they find one they both like.

            (He really likes it and he’s pretty sure she’s pretending not to like it as much as he does just to be stubborn.)

            So of course he decides to buy it.

            “The point of today is _not_ to buy things, Killian.”

            “But there’s only one left.”

            “I’m sure they’ll get more.”

            “And if they don’t? We’re stuck with the bloody monkeys, or footballs.”

            “This is not the only store that sells bedding, we can always pick something else.”

            “But we’ve already agreed on this one.”

            “So we put it on the registry.”

            “But if they run out—”

            “And now we’re going in circles.”

            “Henry, lad! Can you fetch a cart, please?”

            “You’re ridiculous.”

            “Do you not like this bedspread?”

            “No, I do, I just—”

            “There’s still plenty to put on the registry. Ruby can buy the mobile.”

            Pause.

            “Really? You’re all set on getting the bedspread because it’s the last one, but the fact that there’s only one mobile left doesn’t bother you?”

            “Do you want the mobile as well? I thought the point wasn’t to buy anything.”

            “But if you’re going to anyway—”

            Henry interrupts them by putting both the bed set _and_ the mobile in the cart he’s just procured.

\---

            He takes them back to their apartment after and Henry invites him to stay for dinner. He and Henry end up running out to pick up food, and Henry talks him into stopping to rent a movie as well, and when they return Emma’s napping on the couch. He and Henry go to the kitchen to eat, talking in hushed voices about Star Wars.

            It’s not a new idea to him, the concept of stepfatherhood. He’d pretty well embraced the idea when he and Milah were together, because he’d always assumed that even after she left her husband (which was really just a matter of time, and timing), she’d still retain contact with her son.  

            He never met the boy, or even saw a photograph. Milah kept that part of her life pretty well guarded, and separate from what they were, and it hadn’t ever really occurred to him to be concerned about that. He figured she’d tell him eventually. He figured one day they’d get to be together, properly—he’d thought of marriage, the whole lot. Imagined her son would come stay with them, at least. (The details of the custody battle weren’t something he wanted to dwell on.) But the idea of caring for a child that wasn’t his didn’t phase him.

            He’d been cared for by someone who wasn’t his parent, and even if that was a strained relationship—perhaps that’s what made him almost want it more.

            And he realizes it’s different, different circumstances, but he does genuinely care about the boy. He likes spending time with him and getting to know him, likes this bond they’re starting to form. He might not be the Henry’s stepfather, and he might not ever be (which is not a thought he likes to dwell on but one he remains mindful of nonetheless), but this is his son’s brother, and he won’t treat him like he’s less simply because he’s not his.

            (His aunt was always just—the bare minimum. She looked after him because he was her sister’s son, cared for him only that much, but they all knew she never loved him as if he were her own, and they all knew that as soon as he was 18 he was to be out of the house. And so he was. He visited her in the hospital and he went to her funeral, but there was little love between them and that’s not the sort of relationship he wants with Henry, that’s not an example he wants to learn from.)

            And deciding on a movie to rent with Henry, sitting with him at the kitchen table while Emma’s asleep in the other room, asking him about summer camp and his friends—it’s easy to pretend, for a moment—to imagine how things _could_ be.

            Especially when Emma wakes up and joins them at the table, ruffling Henry’s hair and stealing his fries, arguing with him about names while Henry looks on and laughs and adds his own suggestions (and agrees with the more ridiculous names Killian throws out just to irritate her).

And when they’re finished eating and she goes to clear the table but he stops her because he and Henry can do it, she can rest a bit more, and she gives him a look he can’t read.

And when they go to the living room to watch the movie and Henry sits in between them.

            It feels like something he could get used to, something he’d like to be part of, something like home, and family.

            Something he hasn’t had in a very long time.

            (But at the end of the night he’ll say goodbye and return to his apartment.)

            ( _This_ is how things are.)

\---

            “I was gonna go look at a place tomorrow. Wanna come?” she asks quietly.

            Henry went to bed an hour ago, at least, but he hasn’t left yet. He took the mobile out of the box and put it together, just to see what it would look like, and now it’s just sitting on the coffee table, the bed set in a bag against the wall.

            “Sure. What time?”

            “We’re meeting the guy at 1.”

            “Shall I pick you and Henry up again, or do you want to drive this time?”

            “No, you can drive,” she says with a smile. He grins.

            “What time is it?” he asks a few minutes later. Not that he _wants_ to leave, but—

            “10:37.”

            “I should get going.” He puts on his shoes and walks to the door, Emma trailing after him.  

“Thanks for dinner. And for staying with Henry,” she says, suddenly serious. He shrugs.

“I wasn’t just going to leave.” He takes a step closer. “This might come as a surprise, love, but I actually _like_ spending time with you and the lad.”

She doesn’t say anything, just bites her lip, expression, once again, unreadable.

(One step forward, three steps back.)

He sighs internally.

            “Have a good night, Emma. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says after a moment, nodding slightly.

            He’s about to go when her voice stops him.

            “You really mean that?” It’s less of a question and more a statement.

            He turns back to her.

            “Yeah.”

            “No, but Henry, too.”

            He nods again. “I’m growing quite fond of the boy. I’m glad he seems to like me as well.”

            “He does.”

            “Good.” He pauses. “Right?”

            She doesn’t say anything and he chances a step forward. She doesn’t back away.

            “Emma, love—”

            But he doesn’t get to finish, because that’s when she kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested: http://galleryplus.ebayimg.com/ws/web/161010704074_1_0_1/1000x1000.jpg


	13. Chapter 13

 

            She was not expecting to feel like this.

            When he’d told her he couldn’t make it to the appointment, she’d had no strong feelings about it, really. She could tell _he_ was upset about it (sweet idiot that he is), but it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. She’d gone through her entire pregnancy with Henry on her own. Not having Killian with her for one appointment was nothing.

            But it was _weird_ , waiting to be called in on her own, not having anyone to talk to after the nurse leaves her to wait for the doctor to come in, not having him there to smile with her when the heartbeat fills the room and they do the ultrasound.

            She just _misses_ him, and she hadn’t fully expected that.

            And she doesn’t know what possesses her—she barely even thinks about it, barely questions it when she finds herself calling Mary Margaret as she’s walking back to her car, two ultrasound photos in her purse (because she knows he’ll want one to hang on his fridge because that’s where the other one is, _God_ ), asks if it’s okay if she drops Henry off for a couple hours.

            “ _Sure, that’s fine. Everything okay?_ ”

            Fine, everything’s fine, there’s no problem, nothing wrong at all, just—

            She just needs to see him, or something, and she tries not to think about the why too much.

            And she doesn’t really examine the why behind stopping at Granny’s to pick up dinner for them, either, why she decides to meet him at work and not his apartment—she just goes with it, and it’s not until she reaches his car to wait for him that it really hits her—

            What the _fuck_ is she doing?

            But she’s already here (and she does actually _want_ to see him) so she waits, containers of takeout (and she didn’t even stop to think about the fact that she knew what he’d want, because of course she would, but she’s not his girlfriend but—) and she’d hate herself for the way her heart fucking _skips_ when she sees him except he actually _stops_ when he sees her, his whole face lighting up, and they’re such a disaster, _she’s_ such a disaster when it comes to him, and she needs to lighten the air or something (and when did she start _smiling_ ) and—

            “Hey there sailor,” she says, and immediately wants to take it back—what is she doing? Is she really flirting with him right now?

            And he looks so damn _happy_ to see her, and it makes her heart ache ( _he_ makes her heart ache) and she doesn’t know how to do this, she ends up saying something inane about Granny’s, and he fucking _smirks_ and he’s onto her and she wants to wipe that smirk off his face—

            And they end up practically having a _picnic_ , and she tells him about the appointment and he tells her about work and it’s _nice_ and she _likes_ him and he’s so obviously pleased to be eating out of a Styrofoam container at a park bench with her and her attempts at keeping him at arm’s length have _failed_ , completely, miserably—

            And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

            She came to see him because she missed him, because she likes having him around, and he keeps looking at her with that stupid smirk like he knows it and she _will not_ tell him that because that’s too much. She barely wants to admit it to herself.

            (It’s one of the best nights she’s had, better than some dates she’s been on, and she won’t admit that to him, either.)

            But of course he brings it up as they’re walking to her car (and she will _not_ hold his hand, this was date-like enough as it is), all sweet and thanking her for dinner. She tries to pass it off as nothing.

            “And for coming to see me,” he adds, eyes sparkling, that _stupid_ smile on his face. He takes a step closer to her and she should move away, she should, but she doesn’t because maybe she likes being this close to him, maybe she’s an idiot (she _did_ meet him after work with take out like some sort of doting girlfriend, _what_ is this man doing to her), but she just shoves her hands in his pockets and shrugs.

            “Well, you sounded so upset about not getting to go with me,” she teases. His smile widens and he’s just so damn _happy_ , and she doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand why he’s so interested, why he has these feelings for her (she _knows_ he does, he wears his heart on his sleeve and she’s terrified she’s going to hurt him or maybe she already is), and she avoids his gaze, shrugging.

            “And, maybe I missed you, too,” she admits, echoing his words from the other night, and she can _feel_ his smirk before she looks at him again and when she does she’s not disappointed, rolling her eyes.

            “Shut up.”

            And his eyes are twinkling with mirth and he pulls her into a hug and she fucking _melts_ , _God_ , she loves it when he hugs her. He’s warm and solid and _safe_ , and she remembers how tentative he used to be and how she sort of loved him for that, but now she loves _this_ , the easy way he pulls her in and buries his face in her hair and—

            “I missed you, too, Swan.”

            _Fuck_.

            She lets herself curl into him a little more before he lets her go and takes a step back, and he’s walking away when she reminds him about the picture, and the look on his face—

            She wants him like this forever.

            (She’s afraid it can’t last.)

\---

            “So did you and Killian have a good time last night?”

            Both Emma and Ruby whip around to look at Mary Margaret, who’s sipping at her iced tea with an innocent expression. Emma narrows her eyes.

            _Traitor_.

            “Fine,” she says evenly. Mary Margaret smiles sweetly.

            “What did you and Killian do last night?” Ruby asks.

            “Nothing,” Emma answers at the same time Mary Margaret says:

            “They went out to dinner.”

            Ruby’s eyes are wide and Emma glares at Mary Margaret.

            “We did _not_ go out to dinner.”

            “No?”           

            “No. I just—brought him dinner,” and as she says it she realizes that’s even _worse_ than saying they’d gone out.

            _Fuck_.

            “Like a _date_?” Ruby asks gleefully.

            “ _No_.”

            Ruby rolls her eyes.

            “For God’s sake, Emma, would you just—”

            “We’re just friends, friends get dinner sometimes, it’s not this romantic thing you’re making it out to be.”

            Mary Margaret shrugs.

            “You surprised him at work and brought him dinner. Seems pretty romantic to me.”

            “Oh my God.”

            She can see now that trusting Mary Margaret to keep that a secret was a mistake. She sighs.

            “Would you both just—”

            “You’re dating him, Emma,” Ruby says in exasperation. “I know you want to pretend you’re not but you really are, and everyone knows it except for you, apparently. And probably him because he’s following _your_ lead.”

Emma squirms.

            “We’re not dating,” she says weakly.

            “Why did you go see him last night, then?”

            The question of the week.

            “Because he couldn’t go to my doctor’s appointment with me and I knew he’d want to know how it went.”

            “You could’ve called him,” Mary Margaret points out, and _when_ did she start to like Killian? (But this is good, she knows this is good, but right now she’d like for her to _not_ be so suddenly Team Killian and just leave her in this state of denial she’s doing fine in.)

            Emma sighs.

            “Yeah, I know.”

            “But you didn’t,” Ruby says. Emma glares at her, too.

            “No, I didn’t, I went to see him, yes, because I—”

            They’re both looking at her with a _go on_ expression and she hates them a little.

            “Because I wanted to. Okay? I wanted to see him.”

            “Now, was that so hard to admit?”

            _Yes._

            (Ruby looks far too smug.)

            “It’s not a big deal, I don’t know why you’re acting like it is,” Emma says.

            “Um, it’s a _huge_ deal, Emma.”

            (She knows it is, and she doesn’t want it to be.)

            “It’s okay to like him,” Mary Margaret says gently. “I really think he wants to be with you. _All_ of you.”

            Emma bites her lip. She knows it’s okay to like him. She knows it wouldn’t be terrible, to just—to let it happen. To stop fighting it so much. But she’s afraid of what it would all mean, she’s afraid of what it could lead to, she’s afraid he will change his mind and she _can’t_ —she can’t risk her heart like that.

            (Again.)

            Not until she’s _sure_ that this is something he would want. _Actually_. Not just her, but all of them—her and the baby and Henry.

            “Not every guy is like Neal,” Ruby says.

            And she knows that, too.

            (She just needs to make sure.)

\---

            He tells her he’s been researching car seats and strollers and cribs and it’s not exactly surprising, and she teases him about it of course, but when he picks them up on Saturday and shows her the list he’s made (he _actually_ has a list) it’s all she can do not to kiss him right then because he’s _adorable_ and _sweet_ and—

            And his notes are _ridiculous_. ( _Pros: Best in crash test. Cons: Expensive; red._ )

\---

            (She does _not_ spend any time thinking about the associate mistaking them for a married couple, does _not_ weigh _Emma Jones_ on her tongue, does _not_ dwell on it at all.

And she actually really likes the bed set they pick out, but she likes giving him a hard time more. She thinks he knows it.

And she’s looking forward to watching him build the crib far more than she’s willing to admit.)

\---

            And the thing is—ever since Wednesday lunch she’s been thinking about it, about him and them and dating and—

            And she’s finding that she wants that. She wants him around more, she wants to be able to hug him whenever she feels like it, she wants to kiss him again, she wants to give this a shot. She’s scared, too, terrified, but the desire—what it could be—is starting to outweigh the fear.

            It feels like more and more she’s getting these glimpses of a future that’s just within reach, one that includes him as more than just a visitor.

The only thing standing in the way of it is her.

\---

            He stays after Henry goes to bed (he always stays after Henry goes to bed) but he also—he stayed earlier, too. He could’ve _easily_ left when they got back with food and found her asleep. But no, he stayed and ate dinner with her son and talked to him and it made her heart ache, hearing them in the kitchen together talking about _gambling_ , of all things, before she made her presence known.

            She’s glad he stayed.

            (She’s gotten so used to his presence that not only does she notice when he’s gone, she _misses_ him.)

            And it would be _wildly_ inappropriate to ask him to stay the night, and also confusing for him because they’re _not_ dating, and also for Henry, so she doesn’t, she follows him to the door, and thanks him, and she feels unsettled and confused, and—

“I wasn’t just going to leave,” he says, taking a step closer. He lowers his voice slightly, like he’s telling her a secret. “This might come as a surprise, love, but I actually _like_ spending time with you and the lad.”

And her heart _aches_.

(“ _He wants to be with you_.”)

(And maybe he wants them to be his home.)

But he misinterprets her silence and she sees him deflate. Take a step back. She wants to reach out for him but she’s frozen.

            “Have a good night, Emma. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, meeting her eyes quickly before looking away again, small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

            _No._

            “You really mean that?”

            Because she needs to be _sure._

            He turns back to her.

            “Yeah.”

            And he’s telling the truth, but—           

            “No, but Henry, too.”

            Because they’re a package deal, and if he wants to be with her then he needs to be okay with her son (he’s been nothing but good with her son and she knows it).

            He nods again. “I’m growing quite fond of the boy. I’m glad he seems to like me as well.”

            Her heart clenches painfully again and she thinks of the way Henry laughed at his ridiculous name suggestions, the way Killian smiled at him when he did.

            “He does.”

            “Good.” He smiles, then, like he really _is_ pleased to hear that her son likes him. (Of course he does, he’s taken to Killian like he hasn’t ever taken to _anyone_ , and maybe it’s because Killian makes an effort with him or maybe it’s because he just _fits_.) But his expression turns serious again as he looks at her. “Right?”

            And she knows what he’s asking.

            He thinks she’s _upset_ , or something, that he’s forming a relationship with her son. And she remembers her words from before, about not getting attached (and they’re all so far gone already, there’s really no going back and maybe she needs to stop pretending they can) and she doesn’t know what to say, how to say any of the thoughts that are bouncing back and forth through her head. How to tell him that she loves that he cares about her son, how happy it makes her that her son likes him, how she was afraid Henry would get attached and Killian wouldn’t care, a fear so clearly unfounded that she wants to laugh, except she doesn’t because this is serious, this entire situation is serious, _he_ is so serious right now, and she was terrified of letting him anywhere near her heart but that fear’s unfounded too because he’s proven to be nothing if not careful with her.

            He takes a step toward her again, concerned ( _she’s_ hurting _him_ here and _he’s_ worried about _her_ ) and—

            “Emma, love—”

            And that’s what does it, she can’t—she needs to stop fighting it, she _does_ , she—

            She kisses him.

            Grabs him by his collar and presses her lips to his, and she can tell he’s surprised but she doesn’t stop, and a second later he’s responding and his arms are around her and pulling her closer and she sighs. She’s kissed him before ( _obviously_ ) but this is—this is completely different, this is new, because before it was just passion, before he was just some guy she met and had chemistry with but now he’s—

            He’s so much _more_.

            He’s her friend, her partner in all this. Someone she can count on, someone she trusts. And she’s not sure when it happened, or maybe it was a gradual thing, maybe it was just a natural result of him just _being_ there, but somewhere over the last twenty odd weeks she’s come to rely on him in a way that used to scare her, and in some ways still does, but it’s not so scary anymore because she knows him, because he hangs the ultrasound pictures on the fridge and plays video games with her son and cooks her dinner and holds her when she’s falling apart and doesn’t ask for _anything_ in return. Because he researches the top rated cribs and has opinions on surnames and checks the quality of the locks at the apartments she looks at when he doesn’t have to. Because when she’s with him she feels _safe_ and _loved_ and she hasn’t felt that in a very long time.

            (Possibly never.) 

            And she’s finally ready to let herself admit how much she wants this.

            She starts to pull away and he chases her lips and her heart was already bursting with affection for this man and that nearly does her in. She kisses him once more, then rests her forehead against his, heart beating fast and cheeks flushed. She smiles (she couldn’t _not_ , even if she tried) and when he meets her eyes he does, too, something small and hopeful. Her heart squeezes painfully and he’ll be the death of her, she’s sure of it.

            “I want to try,” she says quietly. “This. Us. I want to give it a shot.”

            “You’re sure?”

            She looks him in the eye (because maybe he needs this as much as she does) and nods.

            “Yeah.” His smile widens and her heart is bursting and she can’t help it. “That is, if you’re up for it.”

            “Mmm. I think I’ll manage,” he responds, nudging her nose lightly with his.

            This time he kisses her, cradling her face in his hands, soft and sweet and slow, like she’s precious to him. She wants to cry (she might, actually, damn hormones), and when he pulls away he’s smiling. She smiles back, and she knows her eyes are watery, but he just tugs her toward him for a hug while she buries her face in his chest.

            “Oh, Swan,” he says with a chuckle.

            “Shut up,” she mutters.

            “That’s all right, love. Cry it out, as they say.”

            “I’m pretty sure it’s ‘hug it out.’”

            “Well, that, too.”

            He presses a kiss to her hair and she melts a little more. He doesn’t say anything and neither does she, content to just stay wrapped up in him like this. But eventually she pulls away (it’s probably late) and smiles shyly at him.

            “So, tomorrow?”

            “I’ll be here,” he answers with a grin of his own. He looks down at his shoes like a bashful schoolboy for a moment before meeting her eyes again. “Have a good night, Emma.”

            And he’s so damn _earnest_ , her heart can’t take it.

            “You, too.”

            She kisses him again before he goes and her lips are still tingling when she locks the door behind him.

\---

            She knows they should talk at some point. About this new development. Because while Ruby was right (and she will _never_ tell her that), and they _were_ practically dating before, they still have to figure out what this all means. Now it’s official, or something, and now they don’t have to dance around it, but there’s still—

            What do they tell Henry? _Do_ they tell anyone yet? Does this mean they’re going to go on actual dates now? What, if anything, changes now?

            (Now they can kiss, and touch, and—)

            They should talk.

\---

            (She doesn’t regret it, though, and there was a part of her that worried she would, and hoped she wouldn’t because he doesn’t deserve that, but her fears have, once again, proven to be unfounded when it comes to him because she doesn’t feel regret, not at all.)

\---

            She’s making Henry mac and cheese when Killian arrives (and he’s early and she’s totally going to tease him later about being over eager, and no, there are definitely _not_ butterflies in her stomach when he smiles at her). Henry sits back down at the table and Killian walks over to where she’s standing at the stove (and she panics for a minute thinking he’s going to kiss her in front of Henry and they haven’t talked about this yet and she doesn’t think she wants Henry to know yet and he should know that right?) but he just smiles and looks into the pot she’s stirring.

            “Mac and cheese?”

            “Yep. Want some?”

            “Sure.”

            And she wants to say something but Henry’s right there and he seems to get it, winking at her (he fucking _winks_ , _God_ ) before going to join Henry at the table.

            “What’ve you got there, lad?”

            “I’m looking for our new apartment,” he answers, pen in hand as he looks through the paper.

            “Ah. Find anything good?”

            “Not really.”

            “Perhaps the one we see today will be nice.”

            “Maybe.”

            She glances at them as Henry hands one of the pages to Killian and her heart swells at the sight of the two of them.

\---

            Killian corners her when she sends Henry off to get his shoes.

            “Hello,” he says softly.

            “Hi.”

            She meets him for a kiss, pulling away after only a moment because Henry could walk in at any minute. He fingers a lock of her hair and smiles.

            “I figured none of this in front of the lad.”

            “You figured right.”

            He considers her carefully for a moment, his look turning serious.

            “Not having second thoughts I hope.”

            “No.” She kisses him again to reassure him. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

            He nods, fingers finding hers and twining together. Apparently he’s decided to not police his desire to touch her anymore. (She doesn’t mind in the slightest.)

            “Have lunch with me tomorrow?” he asks, looking down at their joined hands.

            She smiles.

            “Okay.”

            “Okay.” He meets her eyes and smiles, too. “It’s a date, then.”

            Her stomach flips at the word but before she can say anything they hear Henry’s footsteps approaching and spring apart like teenagers caught making out.

            (They were _holding hands_ , for God’s sake.)

            “Are we going now?” Henry asks, looking between them suspiciously.

            “Yeah,” she says, smiling brightly at him. “Ready?”

            Henry narrows his eyes.

            So maybe she won’t have to tell him after all.

\---

            Killian doesn’t stay that night, just drops them off after they see the apartment (not terrible, but not something they love, either), giving her a hug and promising to call her later.

            She’s about to put Henry to bed when her phone buzzes.

            _Can you talk now?_

            _I’ll call you in a few minutes._

After she tells Henry goodnight she goes to her room, settles against the pillows, and calls him.

            “ _Hello_ ,” he greets.

            “Hey.”

            “ _So. How was the rest of your evening?_ ”

            “Uneventful. Yours?”

            “ _Same._ ” He pauses. “ _So I thought perhaps we should talk about all this, before tomorrow._ ”

            “Agreed.”

            Neither of them says anything.

            “ _The floor is yours, Swan,_ ” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. It soothes her, because for some reason _talking_ about what they are now is far more nerve wracking than she’d expected it to be.

            “I don’t know what to tell Henry,” she says. “I almost don’t want to tell him anything.”

            There’s a pause.

            “ _Can I ask why?_ ”

            She shrugs even though he can’t see.

            “Because—because I don’t want that pressure? I don’t know. I feel like if we tell people right now it’ll just—it’s too much, and they’ll expect things, and—”

            And she doesn’t even really understand it herself, much less in a way that she can put into words. He’s silent on the other end, processing her words.

            “ _What do_ you _want, Emma?_ ” he asks finally.

            “I want to try this out, but I don’t want anyone to know yet. And it’s not because I’m not sure—”

            “ _It’s okay if you aren’t_.”

            And _God_ , she’s bad at this.

            “I _am_ ,” she tells him. “I just—I want this to be about us. We can tell them later.” She pauses. “Are you okay with that?”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            He doesn’t sound okay.

            “What is it?” she asks softly. She hears him sigh and her chest tightens.

            “ _I want to make sure this is really something you want. Because we don’t have to do this if you don’t. Things can stay as they were._ ”

            “I do want this,” she mutters.

            “ _I just worry you don’t want anyone to know because you’re somehow not sure. Or don’t want to be attached to me like that._ ” And his voice is so quiet, so unsure, that her heart _aches_.

            “Killian.” She pauses, tries to figure out how to word it. “It has nothing to do with you. _I_ just—I want us to have the chance to figure this out _without_ everyone we know constantly asking us about it, you know?”

            She waits.

            “ _Okay,_ ” he says finally. He doesn’t say anything for a few moments.

            “What are you thinking?”

            “ _Do I get to take you on dates now?_ ” he questions, tone considerably lighter.

            She smiles.

            “If you want.”

            “ _I do_.”

            (The words cut straight through her and he probably didn’t even realize—there’s no way he planned that, but all the same—)

            “ _So not much changes, does it?_ ”

            “I guess not.”

            “ _Well, except that I can kiss you now. When no one else is around,_ ” he teases. She rolls her eyes.

            “I’d say that’s a pretty big change.”

            “ _Don’t misunderstand me, Swan, I wasn’t complaining._ ” She can hear the smile in his voice. She breathes a little easier, then. If he’s teasing her then he’s okay, he’s not still thinking she’s— _ashamed_ of him or something. (Whatever scars he may carry from his past, whatever he’s done that he’s not proud of—she knows him now, knows the kind of man he is, and she could never be ashamed of him.)

            “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure,” she tells. Because she needs him to _know_. She needs him to get this. “So you don’t have to worry about that, okay?”

            “ _Noted._ ” He takes a moment. “ _I’m glad you’re sure, now_.”           

            She smiles, the baby kicking where her hand is pressed against her belly.

            “Me, too.”           


	14. Chapter 14

**fourteen.**

            It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of properly dating, and yet not much has changed, really. They talk more but see each other about the same, and since Henry doesn’t know (and he gets the feeling she’d never be one for public displays anyway) there’s not much in the way of hand holding or kissing or anything else. So it feels very much like it was except she’s _kissed_ him and that changed things except nothing’s _really_ changed and he—

            He’s not sure what to do with that.

            (They do meet for lunch, sometimes, and that’s nice. That’s—that’s when it feels real.)

            And he wants to bring it up again—talk about it—find some way to ask when she thinks this thing between them is a thing she’d be comfortable sharing, but he’s a coward so he says nothing, just tries to ignore the way it eats at him, tries not to let it feel like it’s got something to do with him.

            (She says she’s sure but she also says they should keep it a secret and he’s having a hard time following the logic there.)

            Still, for as much as he feels like she’s still keeping him at arm’s length, somewhat, he also recognizes that she’s inviting him in more, too. Slowly but surely. Just last weekend he went school supply shopping with her and Henry—a huge step, he thinks, since he’s mostly been around them for things related to the baby. But helping Henry pick out folders and notebooks is different.

            So he knows—he _knows_ , in his head, that he’s overthinking things and stressing himself out for no reason.

            (But sometimes he can’t help it.)

\---

            “ _So this is totally last minute and you’re free to say no_ —”

            “What is it you need, love?”

            She pauses, and he’s not sure if it’s because she’s figuring out what to say or if the ‘love’ has thrown her.

            (It’s a habit, just something he says, and he doesn’t always catch himself but he knows it throws her and he’s still not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.)

            “ _I’m working late tomorrow and I need someone to pick Henry up from school, and I called Neal because he hasn’t seen him in a few weeks but he hasn’t responded and—_ ”

            “I can do it.”

            “ _Really?_ ”

            “Of course.” He smiles to himself. “What time does the lad need to be picked up?”

            “ _Well school gets out at 2:45 and then he’ll go to after care, and that goes until 6. So any time between then. I should be off work at 6 but I won’t get to him in time._ ”

            “Don’t worry about it, I’ll pick him up.” He pauses. “Will I be allowed to take him, or will he need a note, or—”

            “ _I already added you to the emergency contacts so it’ll be fine. They might ask you for your ID to make sure, but it shouldn’t be a problem._ ”

            He feels his breath hitch, and it shouldn’t affect him so much and yet—

            She’s made him an _emergency contact_. He’s in her son’s _school file_. Like he’s family, like he’s permanent, like—

            “ _Killian?_ ”

            “Right, yeah, all right. Good.”

            “ _Everything okay?_ ”

            “Yeah.”

            (She’s asked _him_ because Neal couldn’t make it. Not David or Mary Margaret or Ruby. _Him_.)

            “ _So I’ll call you when I’m off work and meet you guys somewhere._ ”

            “Sounds good.”

            “ _Okay._ ” Pause. “ _Thanks._ ”

            “Of course.”

            (Like she _trusts_ him with her son.)

            “ _I’ll see you tomorrow, then._ ”

            “See you tomorrow. Have a good night, Swan.”

            “ _You too._ ”

            Progress.

\---

            He decides to pick Henry up at 3. Figures the boy spends enough time at after care, and he might enjoy getting to leave early. Figures he’ll take him for ice cream and to the arcade, or wherever he wants to go. And then later they can meet up with Emma and have dinner.

            And so he does. He goes to the school and finds out which classroom holds the after school care program, walks in (Henry grins brightly when he sees him and calls his name from across the room) and signs him out without a fuss (“Henry told us you’d be picking him up today,” the teacher in charge of the program tells him with a smile), making sure Henry has his backpack and lunch box before they leave.

            Henry’s chatting a mile a minute about his classes that day and the new music teacher and Killian’s smiling and nodding as he speaks (and thinking about how in a few years the baby will be in school and it’ll be first days and homework and lunch boxes) and it’s all very pleasant and—

            “What’s this?”

            And there, approaching them (and the school) is Neal.

            His question is harmless but Killian feels his defenses go up.

            “Dad! What are you doing here?” Henry asks. He sounds pleased to see his father, but also confused, but Neal smiles broadly as though there’s nothing to be confused about.

            “I’m here to pick you up from school. We’re gonna hang out this weekend,” he tells him. “Didn’t your mom tell you?”

            (Killian gets the feeling _Neal_ barely told Emma of this plan.)

            “No. But that’s cool,” Henry says. Neal looks at Killian with a mild expression, still smiling, and yet there’s a question, a challenge in his eyes. Henry glances up at Killian, as if asking _what do we do_? Killian smiles down at him before turning to Neal.

            “Emma asked me to pick him up,” he explains. “In case—”

            “Well, thanks, but I’m here now.” Neal’s expression hasn’t changed but there’s definitely a heaviness, a charge in the air between them. Neal holds his gaze for another moment before turning to Henry.  “Got all your stuff, bud?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Then let’s go.”

            “Bye, Killian. See you later,” Henry tells him as he takes a step toward his father. (Neal puts his hand on Henry’s shoulder, clearly staking a claim, or perhaps reminding Killian just who his father is. As if Killian could forget.) Killian ignores Neal and smiles at Henry.

            “See you around, lad. Have a good weekend with your dad.”

            “I will,” Henry says with a grin. Neal seems less than pleased but Killian is less than pleased with _him_. And already he’s steering Henry away, clearly done with this, but Killian decides to be the bigger person.

            “Good to see you, Neal.”

            “Yeah, you too,” he returns over his shoulder as he and Henry go, his tone relaying more “fuck off” than anything else. Henry glances at him once more and grins again, and Killian can’t help smiling at him.

            It fades as soon as they’re out of sight.

            So much for spending the afternoon with Henry.

            When he gets back to his car he finds there are four missed calls and a voicemail from Emma waiting for him on his phone. He doesn’t bother listening to the voicemail, just calls her.

            “ _Did you already pick up Henry?_ ” she says by way of greeting.

            “Hello to you, too, Swan.”

            “ _I just got a message from Neal—_ ”

            “Aye, we ran into him.”

            Pause.

            “ _You did?_ ”

            “As we were leaving the school. So Henry’s with him now.”

            “ _I’m sorry, I just—”_

“No need to apologize, love.”

            “ _He never called me back and then he called today and said he was on his way to get him and—_ ”

            “Really, Emma, it’s fine. We arrived at the same time, he took Henry, all is well.”

            Pause.

            “ _Was he an idiot about it?_ ”           

            Killian can’t help the snort there.

            “A bit.”

            She sighs.

            “ _I’m sorry_.”

            “Truly, it’s fine.”

            “ _I know. But I thought it’d be nice for you and Henry to spend time together._ ”

            He smiles softly.

            “Some other time, then.”

            “ _Yeah?_ ”

            “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “So. Looks like you have the weekend free.”

            “ _Looks like it_.”

            He pauses. Considers his words.

            “Any plans?”

            He tries to sound casual. Isn’t sure how successful he is.

            “ _No._ ”

            “What a coincidence. I haven’t any, either.”

            She doesn’t say anything.

            He shouldn’t be this nervous.

            “Would you like to go on a proper date?”

            “ _Tonight?_ ”

            “Aye.”

            (Why is he so nervous?)

            “ _What kind of proper date?_ ”

            “Oh, you know. The kind where we dress up and I take you somewhere nice.”

            “ _I’m six months pregnant, I’m not sure dressing up is gonna go well for me._ ”

            “Please?”

            She sighs.

            “ _Okay_.”

            “Okay?”

            “ _Yeah. We can go on a date. You realize this isn’t our first date, right?”_ she teases.

            “Ice cream and watching TV on your couch don’t count,” he says with a smile.

            “ _And I suppose you making me dinner doesn’t, either?_ ”

            His smile widens.

            “I’ll pick you up at 7. Wear something nice.”

            “ _I’m the size of a bus, but okay._ ”

            “Not a bus, not yet. A minivan, perhaps,” he teases.

            “ _You’re lucky this is over the phone or I’d hit you right now._ ”

            He laughs.

            “I can take you.”

            “ _Oh yeah?_ ”

            And just like that the air changes and he’s too warm, all he can think of is her and—

            “ _See you at 7, Jones._ ”

            She hangs up before he can get another word in and he curses under his breath.

            She’ll be the death of him.

\---

            “Someone’s awfully dressed up,” Tink comments as she lets herself into his apartment.

            “Go away.”

            “I live here.”

            “You’re welcome, by the way.”

            She flips him off on her way to the kitchen.

            “Seriously, when did you move in here?” he calls after her.

            “At least I have a job, unlike _some_ people who crash on couches.”

            “I was—”           

            She waves him off. “I know, I know.”

            She takes a sip of the beer in her hand ( _his_ beer) and plops onto the couch.

            “Seriously, why are you so dressed up?”

            He shrugs, feeling his cheeks redden.

            “No reason.”

            Tink rolls her eyes.

            “Right, like you go to poker night or whatever in a suit.”

            He scratches the back of his neck, cursing himself for not leaving five minutes earlier. He could’ve avoided this.

            And he knows Emma doesn’t want to tell anyone yet but—

            “I’m going on a date,” he says. “If you must know.”  
            Tink’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.

            “A _date_?”

            “Aye.”

            “Since when do you go on _dates?_ Since when are you even interested in dating? Last I checked you were still hung up on—”

            She stops. He fidgets under her gaze.

            “ _No_.”

            Saying anything was a terrible idea.

            “I’m going to be late.”

            “You’re going on a date with _Emma?_ ”

            “Don’t drink all my beer.”

            “She finally agreed to go out with you? More than that, you _finally_ asked her? And she said _yes_?”           

            He bristles.

            “She’s not—she’s not been uninterested, she’s been—”

            “Shut up, Killy.” She grins widely while he grimaces at the nickname. “You’re going on a _date_.” She looks like a cat that got the canary and he’s sure his cheeks are horribly flushed.

            “I have to go now.”

            “Don’t stay out too late!” she calls as he leaves. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

            He flips her off as he slips out and her laughter follows him all the way to the elevator.

\---

            (He stops on the way to her apartment. Gets her buttercups, because he’s seen the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. And he knows she’s right—this is hardly their first date—but it’s their first _proper_ date. The first where they’re calling it a date, the first where they’ve admitted, more or less, how they feel. And he wants to do it right. Flowers and a fancy dinner, and—

            It’s what she deserves, anyway.)

\---

            He stands in front of her door for a moment before knocking. Fidgets, passes the flowers awkwardly between his hands, checks that his collar isn’t sticking up like a moron. He doesn’t know why he’s so anxious about this.

            (Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he hasn’t seen her in five days, something to do with the fact that they’re still dancing around this thing between them, something to do with the way she makes his heart race and his palms sweat and feelings he hasn’t felt in a long time course through him, something to do with how easy it is between them even still, how well they fit, how much he wants this with her—

            Maybe it’s a whole constellation of reasons.)

            He knocks ( _finally_ ), nerves and excitement and—

            And she’s _beautiful_.

            “Swan,” he breathes. She smiles shyly.

            “Hey.”

            He remembers himself, then, holds out the flowers to her.

            “For you.”

            Her gaze softens even more as she takes them.

            “Buttercups?”

            He nods.

            “I figured, with your tattoo—”

            But he doesn’t get to finish because she leans forward and kisses him. He’s too shocked to respond properly (they’ve kissed only a handful of times, and it still doesn’t feel quite real, that this is a thing they can do now) but when she pulls back she’s smiling and he feels flushed and happy and lighter than he has in days. He grins in return.

            “Shall we?” he asks, offering her his hand. She takes it, lacing their fingers.

            “We shall.”

\---

            (The restaurant is lovely and he’s sure the food would have been, too, except there’s a fire in the kitchen and the sprinkler system is activated by it and it’s all rather chaotic, and they’ve not even been _seated_ yet, and he tries not to take it as a bad omen, and they end up deciding to pick up take out instead.

            He can hear Tink’s laughter already.)

\---

            And he half feels awful because he wanted this to be _nice_ , and _special_ , or whatever, and he’s really quite terrible at this (and realizes just how long it’s been since he dated, properly, and maybe he was never much good at it anyway), and yet—

            It works out.

            They go back to her apartment with takeout and a movie (that they spent nearly twenty minutes trying to pick from the Red Box outside CVS, bickering and reading summaries and weighing their options and they’re never going to decide on a name for the baby, he’ll be ‘Baby Swan-Jones’ for years because they’ll be too busy arguing to decide), sitting on the couch in their nice clothes eating burgers (and pancakes) from Styrofoam containers and stealing each other’s fries. (Which is ridiculous. They both have them. And yet it’s more fun to snatch one from her container, and for her to reach over and grab one from his.)

            “When I was pregnant with Henry my favorite things were hot dogs and Dr. Pepper,” she tells him. It’s a random thing to say, but he’s learned to take these bits she shares with him and hold them close, treat them carefully. Because it’s not _just_ some sort of fun fact she’s sharing with him. It’s something about her past, something about a vulnerable time in her life, something she wouldn’t just say for the sake of it.

            Emma’s become much more open with him, has let herself be vulnerable with him on several occasions, but he knows better than to take on some sort of entitled attitude about it. These moments are gifts, and his reaction is as important as what she’s saying.

            “Really?”

            “Yeah. With this one it’s all about pancakes.”

            He smiles.

            (Things he’s learned about Emma Swan: she prefers pancakes to waffles, always has.)

            (He wonders if the baby will share that preference.)

            “You should write it down,” he says casually, not looking at her.

            “What?”

            He shrugs.

            “Just—perhaps a journal. For your thoughts.”

            “On my pregnancy?”

            He shrugs again, suddenly wishing he hadn’t said anything. But she’s looking at him now, giving him her full attention, and he has no choice but to keep going.

            “Just—you’ve said before, how different this experience has been. From before. And I thought maybe you might like to, I don’t know. Keep a record of it. Write it down and—and maybe that could help you process it all, somehow.”

            She regards him for a moment. He meets her eyes, the air between them heavier. Not uncomfortable, but—there’s a weight to it where previously things had been light and stealing food from each other’s plates and commenting on the movie. This is different.

            She looks away, back down at her food, and he looks away, too.

            (He might be terrible at this whole dating thing.)

            “I never wanted to remember any of it,” she says softly. “I just wanted to be done with it and move on. I didn’t plan on ever having another baby.”

            “Never?”

            She shakes her head.

            “I never really wanted kids at all—never wanted the whole—marriage and family and whatever.”

            “Liar.”

            And it’s blunt, and he regrets it as soon as he says it, because he probably could’ve expressed the same sentiment a bit more _gently_ , but she doesn’t shut down. She just gives him a wry smile that twists his heart.

            “Okay yeah. Maybe I wanted that before. But after Neal—” She sighs. “The point is, I never tried to remember anything with Henry, because I wasn’t gonna keep him, because I hadn’t planned on it happening again, hadn’t planned on—any of this.”

            “Makes sense.”

            (As much as it makes his chest ache.)

            “I haven’t thought about this stuff in _years_.”

            She smiles again, a little teary this time.

            “But I remember— _all_ of it.”

            He takes her hand. Squeezes it lightly. To comfort, or reassure, or—

            She squeezes back and the pressure on his chest eases a bit.

            “What’s something you remember?” he asks quietly.

            She doesn’t answer right away, and he thinks maybe she won’t. Which is fine. He’ll not press her. Just—so long as she knows—he’ll listen. If she wants to talk. He can do that.

            Then she meets his eyes, and he wonders what she’s looking for there.

            What she sees.

            “I remember—I remember my feet hurt. A lot. Just swollen and—” She pauses. “I remember the first time I couldn’t button my jeans anymore. And I sat on the edge of the bathtub and cried and ended up being fifteen minutes late to work.”

            This time a tear does fall. He wipes it away and gathers her into his arms.

            “And this time?”

            He can feel her breath through his shirt as she exhales heavily.

            “I remember texting you to tell you about it.”

            (He remembers, too.)

            “And seeing the footie pajamas with the ducks at Target with you.”

            Pause.

            “I bought those, by the way.”

            “I know you did.”

            She doesn’t say anything else, nor does she move away. He feels as her breath evens out, as she relaxes in his arms.

            (He half wants to tell her he loves her. Half feels like it’s not the right time. But the words are there, on the tip of his tongue, he _loves_ her, _all_ of her, he wants—

            He wants to be the one she comes home to, the one who supports her, the one who listens, the one who sits with her and watches television and grocery shops with her, the one who holds her and dries her tears and—

            _Fuck_.

            He’s so in love with her.)

            “Henry asked me if we’re dating,” she tells him, pulling away slightly to look at him.

            It is _not_ what he expected her to say right then.

            “Did he?”

(He can’t help the way it makes his heart speed up. If her son’s noticed—if she’s told him—that’s—that’s good news.)

            She nods.

            “And what did you tell him?” he asks.

            “The truth.”

            He can’t help the smile there.

            “And he took it well?”

            “He might’ve said, ‘I knew it,’” she says with a grin. His smile, if possible, widens. Because Henry knows they’re dating—she didn’t deny it, didn’t ignore the question. She told her son that she is, in fact, dating him, and that makes it official, more than any number of kisses or dates would. She wouldn’t tell Henry if this wasn’t—if she weren’t—

            And just like that, it’s as real as it’s ever been.

            He feels content in a way he hasn’t in weeks. Since this— _them_ —had started.

            “My dear cousin also knows,” he tells her a few moments later. She’s focused on the TV again and he’s pretending to be, too.

            “Oh?”

            He can’t read her tone. He shrugs.

            “She got back as I was leaving. When I let slip I was going on a date—”

            “Right.”

            “Is that okay?”

            She nods.

            His heart soars.

            “No use keeping it a secret,” she adds. He can’t help the smile there, either, tugging her just a bit closer as she rests her head on his shoulder.

            He presses a kiss to her hair.

            _I love you_.

            (Some secrets still stand.)

\---

            “You still awake, Swan?” he asks softly. She nods. “Do you want me to go? It’s getting late.”

            Pause.

            “You can stay.”

            “Yeah?”

            She nods again. Then she moves away slightly to meet his gaze. “I like having you here,” she tells him, flushing slightly. He smiles. 

            “I like being here.”

            “So it’s pretty win-win for everyone, huh?”

            “It is.”

            He leans in, and she meets him halfway.

            He nearly tells her, then, nearly breathes the words in the space between them as they pull away, nearly gives in and the lets them spill out, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

            (But _oh_ , how he feels them, as she smiles at him, as she stands and takes his hand, as she leads him down the hall to her bedroom, as they crawl into bed.)

            She kisses him after she turns off the lights, a mumbled good night against his lips. And he can’t get over how _right_ it feels, how settled _he_ feels, here with her. He rests his hand on her stomach.

            “Good night, Swan,” he says quietly.

            (He nearly says it then, too.)

\---

            She’s already awake when he wakes up the next morning. She smiles softly at him.

            “Morning,” he greets.

            “Morning.”

            “Been up long?”

            “No, not long.”

            He nods.

            (He tries not to think about how he could get used to this.)

            “So, Killian,” she says after a moment.

            “Yes?”

            “That’s an Irish name right?”

            “I think so, yeah.”

            “Liam, too.”

            He nods.

            “Is your family Irish?”

            “Going back a bit, yeah. On my mother’s side. She was O’Connell. Married Jones.”

            She bites her lip.

            “What are you thinking, love?”

            “What’s something you remember? About your brother?”

            He sucks in a breath at that.

            What _doesn’t_ he remember?

            Images and memories and sounds flit through his mind and he tries to settle on something, tries to pick one, tries—

            “He hated peas,” he says finally, and it’s perhaps not quite what Emma had in mind, but it’s—

            She smiles at him softly, as if to encourage him, and he continues.

            “Mum would get on us to eat our vegetables, and Aunt Shay was even worse. And Liam was typically good about that sort of thing, never one to cause trouble, always trying to make things easier on Mum, but peas were the one thing. He’d try to sneak them onto my plate or Tink’s, and Mum would grin when she noticed and Aunt Shay would glare at him, but the way he reasoned, at least _someone_ was eating them.” He stops, smiling at the memory. “And whenever he visited, Aunt Shay would make them with dinner.”

            She smiles then, too.

            (He hasn’t talked about Liam in such a long time, and there’s a weight on his chest that always comes when he thinks about his brother too long, that taste at the back of his mouth, and it’s still there, it hasn’t gone away, but it’s—it’s easier, somehow, to talk when Emma’s smiling at him like that.)

“And he’d give me change so I could go down to the arcade after school,” he says, suddenly overcome with the need to talk about him, to tell someone else about him, because there’s only him and Tink, and the friends Liam had, but that’s—there’s only one person in his life who knew Liam, who remembers what his laugh sounded like and how his ears would go red when he was angry, one other person who knows that he hated peas, and he wants to tell someone, he wants to tell _her_ because it’s important, because he wants to remember, because he doesn’t want Liam to die with him. The words come faster then.

“Aunt Shay hated that I went, thought it was a waste of time, but I hated being in that cramped apartment. And we’d only just moved her, and Liam was hardly home because he’d gotten a job, but he’d give me quarters on the way to school, tell me to have fun.

            “And he’d write to me. When he went someplace—actually someplace that wasn’t just the ship—he’d send postcards.

            “And Tink still does it, she’ll call me Killy just to annoy me, but he’s the one who started it. He’d call me Killy, or little brother. To keep me in my place, he said.”

            And his eyes are burning, memories and moments and sounds and it’s been ten years and some days he can’t remember what his voice sounded like and that _terrifies_ him, knowing that one day he will forget, and as much as it hurts to remember—

            (This is all he has left of him.)

            “He sounds pretty great,” she says softly.

            “He was.”

            (He wonders what Liam’s reaction to this would’ve been.)

            (And then he remembers that he probably wouldn’t _be_ in this situation if not—because his death is what set him on the trajectory that led him here.)

            “We need to think of a middle name, too, you know,” she says casually.

            “Yeah?”

            She shrugs.

            “You know. Just something to think about.”

            He smiles slightly.

            He may not be able to handle Liam as a first name, but for a middle name—

            (And he loves her just a little more for suggesting it. For understanding that this is important to him.)

            (Mostly, though, he just loves her.)


	15. Chapter 15

            “Are you and Killian dating?”

            She nearly chokes on her frozen yogurt.

            That was _not_ the response she expected to ‘Killian’s gonna pick you up from school tomorrow.’

            “What?”

            Her son shrugs nonchalantly (except he doesn’t do _anything_ nonchalantly) and takes another bite of his yogurt.

            “Just curious.” He looks at her, then, eyes serious, all gentle reassurance. From her ten year old. “But it’s okay if you are. I won’t be upset.”

            This isn’t how she wanted to do this.

            (Not that she’s been thinking about it. Avoiding it, more like.)

            “What makes you think I’m dating Killian?” she asks.

            He shrugs again.

            “He’s around a lot.” He picks a gummy bear out of his yogurt and pops it into his mouth. “He brings the donuts you like and you don’t even have to ask him.”

            (Her chest tightens because she knows what he’s thinking of, knows it’s that time they met Neal for breakfast and arrived late and he’d already ordered for them, got her waffles instead of pancakes because he forgot, and Henry’d been about to tell him, bewildered indignation because _how could Dad not remember that Mom doesn’t like waffles?_ and she’d stopped him and the look on his face—)

            Henry smiles softly at her, then, head titled to one side.

            “And, you smile more when he’s around.”

            (She will _not_ start crying. She refuses.)

            “He’s my friend,” she says, unsure of why, exactly, she won’t just admit it. (Feeling the corner of her mouth lift into a smile just thinking about him.)

            Henry rolls his eyes.

            “Yeah, I know that. But is he your _boyfriend_?”

            God, that word makes her skin crawl, and yet—

            This time she shrugs. Tries to play it off casually. Like this isn’t a huge deal, like this entire thing isn’t terrifying.

            “He’s my sort of boyfriend.”

            Henry grins.

            “I knew it.”

            “But it’s a secret, okay?”

            “That’s dumb.”

            “Henry.”

            He laughs into his frozen yogurt, taking a hearty spoonful.

            “It’s not supposed to be a _secret_ , Mom.”

            “Oh, and I suppose you know all about this, do you?”

            He nods.

            “It’s in my book.”

            Oh God.

            “What book?”

            “The book Mary Margaret got me.”

            _Oh thank God._

            “Fairy tales?”

            He nods enthusiastically.

            “No one ever hides their love unless they have to trick the bad guys,” he explains.

            “Whoa, kid, who said anything about love?”

            Henry ignores her.

            “If you like him, why wouldn’t you want everyone to know?”

            Why indeed.

\---

            And it’d been intentional, asking him to pick Henry up from school. Not quite a test but a little—

            She’d wanted to see how he’d react.

            But more than that, she wanted to give him some time to spend with Henry. Because she knows that they get along when she’s there, over dinner at Granny’s or in her living room playing video games or watching TV. Killian’s great with Henry, and it tugs at something in her, makes her heart flutter to see him so focused on Mario Kart beside her son, to see him listening and nodding as Henry explains something to him.

            (Makes her ache to see the kind of father he’ll be.)

            But she’s always been there, too. And she needs to make sure that Henry’s okay with him even when she’s not around, and she needs to make sure that Killian’s okay with _him_ , too. With _this_.

            Because this is the life. Being an emergency contact and occasionally having to get her son from school.

            And she knows he knows this—has only ever seemed to embrace it—but she’s made a choice, and she needs to make sure, before things go any farther, before this thing gets even more real, becomes _official_ , that it works. That they work. All of them.

            And she was terrified he’d say no, and she knew she was asking last minute and that wasn’t intentional, she’d hoped Neal could do it because he hasn’t seen Henry lately and the longer the time between visits the more she worries, and she knows Henry notices the time that passes, and she doesn’t want that for her son, doesn’t want him constantly wondering when Dad’s gonna call (she’d told him before that he could always call, too, tell Neal he wanted to see him, but he never has, and she knows it’s more out of fear or rejection than not wanting to see him), but Neal didn’t get back to her and she needed someone and Killian—

            Killian is the first person she thinks of, these days. She trusts him, and he’s her support, her partner in everything that’s happening with the baby, and it made sense to ask him. But still, she worried he wouldn’t, or wouldn’t want to, but of course he’d—

            Of course—

            (She hadn’t even been able to get the question out before he’d agreed.)

            She’s glad Henry knows, at least. Glad he’s taken the news well.

            Because the feelings she has for this man are overwhelming sometimes, and for all that that should scare her it doesn’t. She wants him in her life, and he seems content to be in it.

            She’s done fighting.

\---

            “ _Hey Em. I’m on my way to get Henry, I’ll bring him back on Sunday probably, sound good? See ya._ ”

            On _Friday_. She calls him on _Monday_ , _and_ Tuesday—emails him, too, for good measure. And he waits to get back to her until _Friday afternoon_.

            She’s going to _kill_ him.

            And what if Killian’s—

            _Fuck_.

\---

            “Was he an idiot about it?”

            She doesn’t know why she’s asking. Of _course_ he was. Neal’s gotten all stupidly territorial when it comes to Henry (not that it’s motivated him to be around any more than he normally is), like she’s going to keep Henry from him or whatever just because she has a new boyfriend.

            (God that sounds strange.)

            (He’s so much _more_ than that _._ )

            Killian snorts, and she can’t help the warmth that spreads through her at the sound.

            “ _A bit_.”

            And _oh_ , this is the rest of her life. Neal and Killian butting heads and being civil for the kids’ sakes, _forever_ , because even if things between them fall apart she thinks Killian’s the kind of guy who would still go to things like Henry’s high school graduation, who would endure awkward encounters with Neal (and her) for the sake of the son that isn’t even his.

            (This man.)

            She sighs.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “ _Truly, it’s fine_ ,” he tells her. And he means it, she can tell. 

            “I know. But I thought it’d be nice for you and Henry to spend time together.”

            He doesn’t say anything right away, and she wonders if she’s somehow misjudged this, and then—

            “ _Some other time, then_.”

            And his voice is so _soft_ , she can practically see the way he’s smiling right now, and—

            “Yeah?”

            “ _Yeah.”_

            And it’s a _promise_ , and warmth swirls in her belly and she—

“ _So. Looks like you have the weekend free.”_

(He’s not much better than her son when it comes to feigning nonchalance, and the thought makes her smile.)

            “Looks like it.”

            He takes a moment and she waits.

            “ _Any plans?”_  

            “No _._ ”

            “ _What a coincidence. I haven’t any, either.”_

            She bites her lip. True, she’d expected to see him today. Expected to have dinner with him and Henry, expected him to come back to their apartment to watch a movie or play video games with Henry.

            But with Henry gone—

            “ _Would you like to go on a proper date?”_

            And she was expecting that, but it’s still—

            “Tonight?”

            “ _Aye_.”

            (Why is she so nervous?)

            “What kind of proper date?” she asks, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.

            (He does this, sometimes, and she doesn’t think he’s aware that he does it. But sometimes when they’re sitting on the couch watching TV after Henry’s gone to bed, and he’s got his arm around her, he’ll play with her hair a bit, and he did it a few times before, too, so she _knows_ he’s not fully aware that he does it because he wouldn’t have, then. Now he would, but she gets the feeling it’s just an unconscious thing he does, and it makes her heart flutter and _God_ , she’s a grown woman but she feels like a teenager with her first boyfriend.)

            “ _Oh, you know,_ ” he says lightly.“ _The kind where we dress up and I take you somewhere nice.”_

            She hasn’t been on a date like that in years.

“I’m six months pregnant, I’m not sure dressing up is gonna go well for me,” she says instead.

            “ _Please?_ ”

            And _God_ , but she’s actually sort of excited by the idea.

            “Okay.”

            “ _Okay?”_

            (He sounds surprised and she feels—not for the first time—like she sucks at this whole dating thing.)

            (And also like she doesn’t deserve him.)

            “Yeah. We can go on a date,” she says, trying to sound like it’s not a big deal. (But it is.) “You realize this isn’t our first date, right?”

            “ _Ice cream and watching TV on your couch don’t count._ ” 

            “And I suppose you making me dinner doesn’t, either?”

            She can practically hear his grin.

            “ _I’ll pick you up at 7. Wear something nice_.”

            “I’m the size of a bus, but okay _._ ”

            “ _Not a bus, not yet. A minivan, perhaps_ ,” he teases.

            “You’re lucky this is over the phone or I’d hit you right now _,_ ” she tells him, but she’s smiling.

            He laughs.

            “ _I can take you_.”

            And she doesn’t know what possesses her—

“Oh yeah _?_ ”

            But she doesn’t give him a chance to respond (but she can feel how quickly the air changes).

            “See you at 7, Jones _._ ”

            She hangs up, then, smiling and giddy and warm and she’s going on a _date_ with _Killian_.  

\---

            She’s pretty sure the last date she went on—real one, dressing up and going to a fancy dinner date—was with Walsh.

            She remembers Ruby and Mary Margaret coming over to help her pick an outfit (and also to babysit Henry), remember finally picking one and the three of them on her bed waiting for her to give their comments. Henry’s toothy grin and “You look pretty, Mommy.”

            Briefly she considers calling Ruby or Mary Margaret, asking them over to help her plan for her date ( _why_ is she so nervous, it’s just Killian)—

            But that’s the point. Or the problem. Or, not _problem_.

            Killian’s a great guy. Who cares about her, completely sincerely. Who cares about her son. Who gets along with her friends. Even Mary Margaret has warmed to him—Mary Margaret, who has been silently rooting for Neal all these years.

            When he came back into the picture Emma was, predictably, a wreck. Ruby and David wanted to kill him. Mary Margaret thought she should hear him out. A big reason why he’s around Henry at all now is because of Mary Margaret’s counsel. Where David and Ruby thought she should never forgive him for what he did, Mary Margaret always hoped they would work things out for Henry’s sake. Thought it would be good for Henry to have his parents together. And Emma understood that. As a kid who grew up with everything _but_ a typical family she desperately wanted to give that to her son.

            But at the same time—Neal had made his choice. He’d already decided he didn’t want to be with her. Why should Henry change that fact? Why try to make it work _just_ for their son? And suppose they did get back together—so that they could be a normal family for Henry’s sake. Was that really the message she wanted to send to him? That relationships—marriage—aren’t about what you feel for the other person so much as it’s about doing the Right Thing or doing what’s easy?

            She’d worried, initially, that Killian was going to try to do something like that. That his initial “go out on a date with me” was coming from a “I’m going to do the Right Thing by you” place, that he wasn’t interested in _her_ so much as he wanted to do what he thought he was supposed to do. And being with him would be easy. He wants the baby. He’s good with her son. There are worse things.

            But she didn’t want him to want to be with her just for that. She wanted him to just want _her_.

            And she wanted to make sure that that was her reason, too.

            (“ _What do_ you _want, Emma?_ ”)

            (“ _Not what’s easy—what do you want?_ ”)

            And Henry’s right. It’s—it’s stupid (cowardly might be a better word, though) to want to hide it. She made a choice and she told him she was sure and yet—

            And she knows it bothers him. She can tell in the way he tenses, the way his fingers twitch and his hugs are shorter than before, in the way he comes around only when invited and barely stays after Henry’s gone to bed. He’s respecting her wishes and she can’t fault him that, it’s what she wanted, but—

            It’s just such a big deal, isn’t it? To actually be dating him. To tell people about it. She knows he has feelings for her, and she has feelings for him, and she’s not good at relationships and normally the stakes wouldn’t be so high right away but in this situation she’s _always_ aware of the stakes, but even more than that—the more time she spends with him and gets to know him—she can see a _future_ with him. A happy one.

            It’s _scary_.

            But she wants it.

            (She wants _him_. Not because he’s the father of her child. Not because it’s easy.)

            (Because he makes her laugh. Because she gets butterflies still when she’s around him, because he smiles at her like she’s important to him, because he’s generous and kind. Because he’s on a first name basis with his librarian and he’s meticulously neat and makes lists for things. Because he respects her.)

            And it doesn’t matter that her last relationship ended badly, doesn’t matter that her track record with this stuff is kind of terrible, because it’s _Killian_. And somehow, that makes all the difference.

            This isn’t dating to see if you get along, it’s dating because you know you do and want to see if _more_ works.

            And she’s pretty sure she already knows the answer to that.

            (He told her once that they “make quite the team” and she’d rolled her eyes then but it’s true. They work well together. They fit together. She’s not worried about what they’ll talk about on this date, because they already do that. They’re already friends. She already trusts him. She knows she likes him. This is just—

            This is a product of that. A result of that.)

            She doesn’t end up calling Ruby or Mary Margaret.

            She figures she’ll wait until _after_. Give them the full report.

            (She can already hear Ruby’s smug _I told you so_.)

\---

            He brings her _flowers_. He looks at her like she’s _beautiful_ , like she’s taken his breath away, and she’s six months pregnant. She hadn’t expected that.

            So she kisses him, and it’s easy, it’s not even a thought, of course—

            (She’s spent a long time holding back, not giving into the desire to touch him or kiss him.)

            (No more.)

\---

            And he seems so _torn_ when the restaurant descends into chaos, like he’s trying to make the best of it but is disappointed with the disaster the evening is becoming. But she doesn’t care that the kitchen caught on fire and they can’t eat at the fancy restaurant he picked.

            (And it _is_ really nice.)

            So she kisses him and suggests take out, and he grins in response and adds that they should get a movie, too, and maybe it’s not the date they planned for, but, well. They haven’t exactly proven to be the best planners.

            And somehow, arguing with him at a Red Box and stealing his fries (because he definitely got more than she did and she’s the pregnant one) (never mind the fact that she’s eating two meals anyway), nudging his foot with hers (and his socks match his shirt, _dork_ )—

            It’s one of the best dates she’s ever been on.

\---

            He tells her he went back and got the duck pajamas and it’s really that, more than anything, that seals it for her.

            (Because of _course_ he did.)

            So she tells him she told Henry, and he tells her he told Tink, and tomorrow she’ll tell Mary Margaret and Ruby, and it’s real, it’s official, they’re together, she doesn’t care if people know it, because it’s _him_. And yeah, things could still end poorly—this could end in six months.

            But it might _not_. And maybe hope has always been Mary Margaret’s thing. Henry’s. But for the first time in a long time she feels hopeful. What she felt in flashes with Neal and Walsh is ever present with him.

            “No use keeping it a secret,” she tells him, and the smile that spreads across his face makes her heart swell.

            (Some days she thinks she could love him and other days she thinks maybe she already does, and _fuck_ but this is one of those days.)

\---

She wakes up first. Watches him for a few moments. He looks younger, asleep. (She wonders if everyone does. It definitely seems that way.) The desire to take care of him washes over her, the realization that he’s just as broken and scared as she is, that he needs someone to stand by him and support him, too.

            And it’s something she’s been thinking about lately. Family and home and all that. She grew up not really having it, and then she had Henry and they were each other’s family, and slowly but surely Mary Margaret and David and even Ruby have become like family, too. It’s a hard thing to be without, but she thinks that not having it has made finding it so much more—rewarding? Valuable?

            She likes that Killian gets it. That he understands.

            But she’ll admit—she wonders about his family. His brother.

            (Mostly his brother.)

            She assumes they were close. But details—how much older was he? What did he look like? Did they take after their mother more?

            He’s been here for her. He’s become this safe person that she feels like she can open up to. And yet he’s still just as tight lipped about his past as she was, and she can’t tell if it’s a product of a lack of trust in her (which she sort of doubts; he is by far the more trusting of the two of them) or because it’s just painful to talk about.

            (She remembers how the only reason she found out about his brother was because she’d pushed him and he was drunk. Remembers how quiet he got when she brought him up again. When she suggested his brother’s name for the baby.)

            The desire to comfort him, help ease his pain wells up suddenly and she almost doesn’t even know what to do with it. She hasn’t felt this way about someone in a very long time.

            (Neal was also always very tight lipped about his past. His home life. So she didn’t share with him, either. For all that he was her first love, she thinks sometimes about how little they actually knew each other.)

            (She thinks that that, more than anything, makes her sad about everything that happened back then.)

            He starts to stir and she smiles as his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep but still oh so blue.

            “Morning,” he murmurs. He looks happy and sleepy and his voice is rough and _God_ , she’s so far gone.

            “Morning.”

            “Been up long?”

            “No, not long.”

            (And she _has_ wondered—)

            “So. Killian.”

            “Yes?”

            “That’s an Irish name right?”

            “I think so, yeah.”

            If he’s confused by her line of questioning he doesn’t let on.

            “Liam, too.”

            He nods, but there’s a flash of something across his face. .

            “Is your family Irish?”

            He pauses a moment.

            “Going back a bit, yeah. On my mother’s side. She was O’Connell. Married Jones.”

            They’ve never really talked about this stuff, either. She supposes it’s probably early date material, but as someone who has no parents and no idea where she came from, she’s always shied away from questions that would lead to revealing that. But she wants to know, with him.

            She wants to know about the sadness in his eyes. 

            “What are you thinking, love?” he asks softly.

            “What’s something you remember?” she asks, echoing his own question last night. “About your brother?”

            He sucks in a breath and she almost wishes she hadn’t asked.

            But he looks like he’s thinking (looks _lost_ , almost), not like he’s avoiding, so she waits. 

            “He hated peas,” he says finally.

            She smiles softly at him, encouraging him to continue, if he wants.

            He does.

\---

            (It’s not something she’d planned, or thought of, really—middle names. But she knows, as soon as she says it, that it’s right.)

\---

            And it’s a little strange, spending the morning with him—laying in bed with him, talking, and then moving to the kitchen to make breakfast.

            (Pancakes. She’s pretty sure Henry’s never going to eat pancakes again, they have them so often anymore.)

            She hasn’t dated much, and even when she did, there weren’t exactly sleepovers at her apartment. There was Henry to think of. So this—this _domesticity_ , this waking up together and having breakfast in pajamas (well, he’s wearing his clothes from yesterday), learning that he takes his coffee black and doesn’t like the syrup to touch the eggs (or bacon, but he seems less concerned on that front), rolling her eyes as he attempts to flip the pancakes in mid air (and fails)—it’s nice.

            Almost too nice.

            (Everything has happened out of order and everything is moving so fast and they haven’t even slept together yet (again) but she has half a mind to suggest they just move in together like _he’d_ sort of suggested weeks ago and it’s _terrifying_ because she _wants_ that, wants _this_ with _him_ and what’s even scarier is how it _doesn’t_ completely scare her, how she _is_ on board with the idea, how well he fits into their life, how much she wants him to _stay_.)

            And when he kisses her he tastes like syrup, all sticky and sweet and grinning against her mouth and she l—

            She _likes_ him. Not the other thing.

            (She’s a _liar_.)

\---

            They’re washing dishes (another completely surreal, completely domestic, completely lovely thing she has no idea what to do with) when someone starts knocking—very vigorously—on the door.

            “Henry?” he asks.

            “Neal said he’d keep him all weekend,” she replies.

            The knocking continues so she leaves Killian in the kitchen to go answer it.

            It’s not Neal.

            It’s Ruby and Mary Margaret.

            “What—”

            “I told you she would forget,” Ruby says.

            “But I text her—”

            “You forgot, right?”

            (Yes.)

            Victor’s brother is getting married and Ruby wrangled Mary Margaret and Emma into going dress shopping with her. They’d talked about it at lunch on Wednesday.

            Emma completely forgot.

            “Sorry,” she says with a wince.

            (And _fuck_ , Killian’s still here.)

            “That’s all right,” Ruby says, moving past her and into the apartment. “We can wait.”

            “Did you just wake up?” Mary Margaret asks, following Ruby. “Where’s Henry?”

            “Uh, no, and he’s with Neal this weekend.”

            “Oh good. I would’ve felt bad dragging him with us.” Ruby sits on the couch and flicks the TV on. At seeing Emma, still frozen by the door, she sighs. “Well, go on, get ready. You’re not getting out of this. It’s about time we all spent some quality time together.”

            “We have lunch every week.”

            “That barely counts.”

            “Are you feeling okay, Emma? You look a little pale,” Mary Margaret tells her, all motherly concern.

            (She wonders if Killian escaped by the window or is just hiding in the kitchen.)

            (Except he can’t escape because his shoes are still by the door.)

            As if on cue he appears in the hallway, pauses before entering the room and meets her eyes.

            _What do we do?_ He mouths.

            She shrugs, tries to mentally communicate _I don’t know._

            (She’s a grown woman, dammit, and she feels like a teenager again, having to sneak a boy out of her room before anyone finds him.)

            (Except that’s not something she did as a teenager.)

            (She’s supposed to be beyond these experiences, not having them for the first time as an adult.)

            “Do you have anything to drink? I’m dying here,” Ruby says, getting up and heading for the kitchen before Emma can stop her.

            And, naturally, coming face to face with Killian.

            _Fuck_.

            “Hello,” he says, as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary here. Ruby and Mary Margaret both turn to her. Ruby looks smug. Mary Margaret looks almost scandalized.

            Killian mouths _Sorry_ from behind Ruby.

            “Killian came over for breakfast,” she lies. Neither of her friends appear to be buying it.

            “I was just leaving,” he adds.

            “I’m sure you were,” Ruby says.

            (And _fuck_ , his hair is all messy—more than normal—and his clothes are wrinkled and she wanted to tell them—was going to tell them—but this isn’t exactly what she had in mind.)

            He moves past Ruby to grab his shoes.

            “Weren’t you getting water or something?” Emma asks her.

            “I’m okay now.”

            It’s the most awkward couple of seconds as he puts his shoes on (and the fact that he’s turning red is ridiculously endearing), and then stands and walks over to her. (The door. Not her. The door.)

            “It was nice seeing you two,” he tells her friends. They smile at him. (Ruby looks far too pleased with the entire situation.)

            Then he turns to her.

            “I’ll talk to you later,” he says, voice quieter suddenly, eyes searching hers, and she realizes then that he’s not going to do anything—he won’t kiss her, won’t hug her, will just say goodbye and go. Because he always follows her lead, and her lead is usually _away_ from any sort of affection when anyone else is around. He smiles softly and her heart swells.

            Fuck it.

            She nods, then leans in and kisses him, full on the lips. He’s surprised, she can tell, but he kisses her back, the corners of his mouth lifting into a grin, and she returns it, pulling back a moment later. She’s sure she’s bright red (he’s a little flushed, too), but she doesn’t care, ignores Ruby and Mary Margaret and just focuses on him.            

            (He looks so _happy_. Because of _her_.)

            “Bye.”

            And _God_ , that was breathier than she’d meant it to be. He grins wider and she rolls her eyes at him, opening the door. He goes, turning back once more to smile at her and it does funny things to her insides and _ugh_ , this man. She smiles once more for him before closing the door.

            “Explain, _explain_ ,” Ruby demands within seconds (and for a moment Emma is reminded of those things on that show Henry likes, Daleks or something).

            Emma turns to her friends and shrugs.

            “We’re kinda dating now.”

            (She’s sure he can probably hear Ruby’s squeal from the street.)

\---

            It takes them a little longer than anticipated to get started on the dress shopping (because Ruby insisted Emma fill them in), but the day is fun, and oddly relaxing, or maybe that’s just because her friends know, because this thing with Killian is real, because things are going well.

            Ruby had been pleased (“I _knew_ this would happen”) and Mary Margaret seemed on board with it. Which is good. Because as much as this is Emma’s life and Emma’s decision, as much as her friends’ opinions shouldn’t sway her—Mary Margaret is her oldest friend, and her opinion matters. And it would’ve been difficult, to say the least, if she’d been unsupportive.

            They’re waiting for Ruby, who has about seven dresses with her in the dressing room, sharing a bag of popcorn from the food court. Henry and Killian have been texting her all afternoon, and more than once Ruby has threatened to take her phone away.

            She’s responding to a text from Killian when she feels Mary Margaret’s eyes on her.

( _How do you feel about Jonah?_ )

            ( _And the whale? Try again._ )  
            “What?” she asks. Mary Margaret’s smiling softly at her.

            “He’s good for you, isn’t he?”

            Emma squirms.

            “What do you mean?”

            She sighs, shrugs.

            “Just—you seem happier.”

            Emma’s phone buzzes and she refuses to check it, but she knows it’s him.

            This time she shrugs.

            “I dunno. I guess I am.”

            (She knows she is.)

            “I may have judged him too harshly at first,” Mary Margaret admits. “But I was worried about you, and Henry.” She pauses, and Emma gets the feeling that there’s more to it than _just_ that. “And—and maybe there was some jealousy, too.”

            “Jealousy?”

            David and Mary Margaret are perfect for each other—true love if she’s ever seen it. Why would Mary Margaret—

            “David and I have been trying to have a baby for—well, for a long time, actually.” She shrugs, smiles—but it’s forced, it’s pained, and Emma’s heart aches. “It probably makes me a terrible person, but when you told me my first thought wasn’t concern for you, it was, wow, that’s really unfair.”

            Emma feels terrible. Absolutely _terrible_. She hadn’t even known—they’d never said anything—and yet—

            “And just—the thought of you, being pregnant with a baby you didn’t want, or bringing a baby into a situation where it wouldn’t be wanted, when David and I _can’t_ —I think I channeled all those feelings into not liking Killian. Which was unfair, I know.” She takes a deep breath. “But I see now—I see that you want this baby, and _he_ wants this baby, and unconventional though it is, it’s right, somehow.”

            “Mary Margaret—”

            “Don’t tell David I said anything to you,” she says. “We’re still—we haven’t given up hope, not yet.”

            Emma takes her hand, squeezes it. Offers her a smile. And it doesn’t seem like nearly enough, but Mary Margaret smiles back, squeezes her hand back, eyes shining a bit (and Emma’s got tears in her eyes, too, and they’re at a _department store_ for crying out loud).

            “I really am happy for you.”

            “I know you are.” She pauses. “And I really, _really_ hope it works out for you guys.”

            Ruby can’t understand why they’re crying when she emerges from the dressing room a few minutes later.

            “We’re just catching up,” Emma tells her, wiping at her eyes.

            She takes a moment to check her phone while Mary Margaret and Ruby critique the dress she’s tried on.

            _How’s quality time going?_

            She smiles.

            _It’s great._

\---

            Neal drops Henry off later that night (after a _hey something came up I’m gonna bring him by in an hour_ text message).

            “So Killian’s picking him up from school now?” he asks after Henry’s run off to his room.

            “You didn’t respond. I figured someone should.”

            “And where were you?”

            “Working. I told you.”

            He puts his hands up in defense, shooting her an easy grin.

            “Just a question.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Sounds like he’s spending a lot of time with you guys now.”

            She shrugs.

            “He’s around.”

            He squints at her, like he’s trying to read her (something he never excelled at).

            “He’s gonna be around, Neal,” she tells him.

            “You seem pretty sure of this guy.”

            “Yeah, well.” And she supposes he should know, too. Supposes he should hear it from her. “We’re dating now.”

            He takes in the words, nods. Smirks.

            “Well, good luck with that, Em.” He moves to the door. “Bye, Henry!” he shouts.

            “Bye, Dad!” Henry calls back. She wonders if he’s heard this whole conversation.

            He nods to her as he goes but she doesn’t say anything, just closes the door behind him.

            (Sometimes she still wishes Neal never came back into their lives.)

\---

            (And she knows Neal’s trying to get to her, is _trying_ to irritate her and make her doubt this but it’s—)

            (It’s working.)

\---

            She’s making spaghetti when Henry comes into the kitchen, plops down at the table and just stares at her.

            “What’s up, kid?”

            “Is Killian gonna live with us?”

            “What?”

            “Because it makes sense,” he continues. “You like him, and he _obviously_ likes you, and when the baby comes—”

            “Henry—”

            “And he looks at all the apartments with us anyway, and hangs out with us all the time, so why doesn’t he just—”

            “Whoa, kid, slow down.” She turns to him, and his eyes are wide and pleading and her heart is clenching uncomfortably and she doesn’t know why but something feels _off_. She turns down the heat on the stove and sits down next to him. “What’s going on?”

            “Nothing.”

            _Liar._

            She raises an eyebrow. He sighs heavily.

            “Just—why can’t he?”

            She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself, tries to find words to explain. (Tries to shove down the voice in her head saying _yeah, why_ can’t _he?_ )

            “Because—because this is all pretty new, still.” She smiles slightly, and he’s focusing on her so intently it makes her heart hurt. “You know? We haven’t even been dating for very long, and just because we’re having a baby doesn’t mean we’re gonna be together forever.”

            “Like you and Dad.”

            Her heart breaks a little more.

            “Yeah.” She reaches out to him, trying for a smile again. “But we don’t know yet that it’s gonna be like me and your dad. It might work out, and—and maybe one day he _will_ live with us. It’s just too early for that stuff.”

            (Isn’t it?)

            (And isn’t this _exactly_ what she was afraid of? Henry getting too attached, Henry getting his hopes up, Henry getting hurt?)

            (She never should’ve said anything to him.)

            Henry considers her words for a moment, sighs. Then nods. “Okay.”

            “Okay?”

            He nods again.

            (But he looks defeated and sad and _fuck_ , she wanted better for him.)

            ( _Like you and Dad_ will haunt her she can already feel it.)

            She pulls him into a hug, clueless as to what else to do. He hugs her back, her sweet boy, hands clenched in her shirt.

            “I’m glad you like him so much, though,” she tells him a few moments later.

            (The blinding terror is back.)

            Henry nods.

            “I do. And he makes you happy.” He looks up at her and smiles. “That makes him okay in my book.”

            She hugs him a little tighter, hopes he doesn’t notice her tears.

            (Damn hormones.)

\---

            But it freaks her out, the entire last day and a half, the entire conversation, everything—it’s too fast, it’s too soon, it won’t work, she _wants_ it (too much)—

            So when he texts her on Sunday ( _Any apartments today?_ ) she doesn’t answer.

            When he calls she doesn’t pick up.

            He texts her again a few hours later.

( _Want me to bring over dinner and a movie?_ )

Only this time she _does_ respond.

            ( _I don’t think that’s a good idea._ )


	16. Chapter 16

           

_I don’t think that’s a good idea._

\---

            _Fuck_.

\---

            And he feels terrible for thinking it—for feeling it—but there’s a strange sort of relief, or something, that floods him when he gets her message. Because he’d been waiting for the shoe to drop. Things had been going well—even in keeping it a secret, things had been fine, and then—then there was the date, and she asked him to stay, and—and—

            And it was a step _forward_ , she told him it was official, that she’d told Henry—she told her friends—she _kissed him_ , in _front_ of them. And, stupidly, he thought that was it, he thought everything was fine, she was sure, she was in this, she—

            ( _I don’t think that’s a good idea_.)

            Just—

            _Fuck_.

            It feels like he should’ve seen this coming—he _did_ see this coming, it’s not terribly surprising—it feels like everything he was afraid of, it almost fucking makes _sense_.

            Of _course_ she’d push him away now.

            _Naturally_.

            (He’s torn between wanting to chuck his phone at the wall and wanting to go over there anyway. Clear the air between them. _Talk_ about this, about whatever it is that’s got her running. And if she’s changed her mind—)

            Because it’s not _just_ that text. It’s the fact that everything was fine yesterday, and then she didn’t respond to him this morning, or answer his call, and then—

            _I don’t think that’s a good idea_.

            She’s having second thoughts, and it hurts because he’s _so_ sure and he doesn’t know what else he can do at this point.

            He doesn’t know what happened between last night and this morning.

            (Doesn’t know what he did wrong.)

\---

            He doesn’t text her back.

\---

            His plan is to avoid her. If she’s—if this isn’t a good idea anymore (because surely that’s what she meant, she wasn’t talking about him coming over, she was talking about _them_ ) then it’s probably best for him to leave her be. Not push her, not—

            (Not that hanging back and following her lead have done him any good.)

            Except there’s an appointment on Tuesday.

            And he’d promised—he’d said, whatever happened between them he would stick around.

            (He desperately wants to see her and desperately wants to hide, feels bruised and embarrassed and he doesn’t know what went wrong so quickly.)

            _The appointment’s still tomorrow at 9, right?_

            _Yeah._

            _Okay. See you there._

            Her response doesn’t come for a few hours.

            _You don’t have to come._

            He bites back several of the retorts he wants to send.

            _I’ll see you tomorrow_.

\---

            She’s already there when he pulls up, waiting outside. It pulls at something in him, seeing her waiting for him.

            “Hey,” she greets. She smiles, too, but it’s wrong, it’s forced, it doesn’t reach her eyes, and the anger almost drains out of him ( _almost_ ) and he wants to pull her into his arms and ask how she’s doing.

            (What happened.)

            “Hey,” he says instead. She doesn’t move and he doesn’t, either. “Shall we?” he asks after a moment. She nods, and he holds the door open for her, hand falling to the small of her back and he fells into step beside her, an unconscious action but he can feel her tense and he removes his hand, puts distance there.

            It stings.

\---

            (As far as appointments go it’s completely normal. Nothing out of the ordinary.)

\---

            “Emma.”

            She’s barely said a word to him since he got here and maybe following her to her car wasn’t the best plan but he just—

            “What?”

            She’s looking at him, at least.

            “Can we talk?”

            “I have to get to work.”

            “What happened?”

            “Nothing, I—”

            “Emma—”

            “I have to go. I can’t do this now.”

            “Can you ever?” He blows out a breath, runs a hand through his hair. “I just—I just need you to clarify something for me.” He pauses, and she nods slightly, crossing her arms over her chest, waiting for him to continue. “You meant this, right? _This_ isn’t a good idea?”

            She doesn’t say anything, just bites her lip, and it’s answer enough.

            (And it fucking _hurts_.)

            He drops his gaze.

            “I’m sorry,” she mutters.

            “Don’t.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to apologize, I want you to _explain_. What—what happened, Emma? Things were fine—on Saturday—I thought things were finally—”

            It’s hurt and frustration and confusion and he hates how thin his voice sounds, hates how much this is affecting him, hates how much he cares when she, apparently—

            (But she _does_ care, she _has_ feelings for him, he didn’t imagine it, it isn’t just him, so what—)

            She’s blinking back tears and he can’t—he _knows_ there’s something and maybe in the past he would’ve backed off, would’ve let her deal with it, wouldn’t have pushed her—maybe a better man than him would take that approach but he’s selfish and he wants this— _her_ —too much and he won’t go down without a fight.

            He chances a step forward, puts his hands on her arms, anchoring her to him (or maybe it’s him to her, maybe he needs this more than she does). She doesn’t back away or shrug him off and he takes that as a good sign.

            “Talk to me, love.”

            She shakes her head.

            “ _Emma_.”

            _Please_.

            She lets out a shaky breath.

            “I’m just not sure that it’s a good idea to spend so much time together. Henry’s noticed, and Neal—”

            _Neal._

            There it is.

_Fucking Neal._

            “What did he say?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even.

            “Nothing.”

            “Emma—”

            “He didn’t—he just said it sounded like you’d been around a lot lately, and then Henry asked if you were moving in with us, and it—”

            It clicks together, then.

            “It scared you.”

            She nods.

            “He’s getting his hopes up,” she says softly. He wipes away a tear, offers her a tentative smile.

            “Is that—is that such a bad thing?”

            “Killian—”

            “Not the—” He sighs. “Emma, I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay if Henry gets attached because I’m here to _stay_.”

            She still looks unsure.   
            “Do you know what he said?” she asks, taking a step back. “When I told him that it was still early, that we were still figuring stuff out, that it might not work out?”

(And he _hates_ how she focuses so much on this. _Yes_ , it might not work out. But it still _could_. In fact, he’s inclined to believe it _will_. And he’s not one for hope—not one for trusting that things will work out for the best. But _this_ feels like something he can have hope in. He wishes she believed that, too.)

“Do you know what Henry’s response was?” she continues. He shakes his head. “‘Like you and Dad.’”

            _Fuck_.

            “Emma—”

            He reaches for her again but she takes another step back, and he’s losing her, he’s—

            “I don’t want him getting hurt, I don’t want the baby getting hurt, I—”

            “ _You_ don’t want to get hurt, either. Right?” Because _that’s_ what it’s really about. He smiles darkly. “Best quit while we’re ahead, is that it? Let’s not bother seeing where this goes, let’s just call it off.”

            She looks down, avoids his eyes.

            “It’s probably better this way.”

            He could scream.

            “ _No_ , it’s _not_ , _God_ , Emma, how can you—you don’t really believe that, do you?” He leans in closer. “You know what I think? I think you can see this working out—I think you have real feelings for me and I think you _want_ this, and I think that terrifies you more than anything. And _that’s_ why you’re running away.”

            Again she doesn’t say anything. But he’s right. He knows he’s right. And for all that the anger is boiling up inside him, for all that he wants to lash out, seeing the way she’s curled in on herself, sad and _defeated_ —it all drains out of him.

            “Emma, I—”

            He wants to say it. The words are there, he _wants_ —but he can’t say it, not right now. Not—not like this.

            “Please don’t run away from me,” he says instead.  

            “Killian—”

            For a moment he thinks she’s going to reach for him, but she doesn’t. She takes a deep breath, like she’s steeling herself for something, like—

            “I need to think. I just need some time to—I’m sorry, I know this isn’t fair, but—”

            And he probably shouldn’t but he can’t help himself, he leans forward that last bit and presses a kiss to her forehead.

            “Take—take some time, then.”

            He doesn’t say _I’ll wait for you_.

            (Doesn’t add _I can’t wait forever_.)

            He just smiles at her, pulling her in for a hug. (And he _doesn’t_ think about how this could be the last for quite some time.)

            When he releases her her eyes are red and watery and his heart is aching and he’s _so_ in love with her even still.

            “Talk to you later, then?” he asks, trying to sound casual, trying to sound normal, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

            She nods.

            “Yeah.”

            (He doesn’t say _Come back to me_ , but it’s—)

            (It’s implied.)

\---  

            (She doesn’t seem to realize that, in the midst of him trying to win her heart, he’d given her his.)

\---

            He goes out after work with a few of his coworkers. Smee and Jefferson. They’ve talked some, but he’s never really hung out with them before. But they mention they’re going to the bar, and he usually turns them down, but he could do with a drink. Today he needs a drink. So he says sure.

            They cotton on pretty quickly to the fact that he’s having relationship problems. He doesn’t give away much, doesn’t tell them what’s going on ( _he_ barely knows what’s going on). Smee offers to play wingman for him and Jefferson’s certainly encouraging, but he can’t. He won’t. Even if Emma—

            He goes home alone, ignores Tink’s questions, and falls asleep at 9:30.

            He has no new messages, no missed calls.

\---

            “Something happened.”

            “Good morning to you, too.”

            Tink narrows her eyes at him.

            “What happened?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Bullshit.” She sighs. “It’s Emma, right? What did you do?”

            “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He finishes his coffee and puts the cup in the sink. “We’re just—taking some time.”

            “You’ve been together for five days.”

            “Three weeks, actually,” he corrects with a forced smile. “Your guess is as good as mine whether we’ll make it to four.”

            “Killian—”

            “I have to go now. Try not to eat all my food.”

            “I go grocery shopping, too!” she calls after him.

            “Have a good day, cousin!”

            “Make it right, Killian!”

            (If only it were that simple.)

\---

            Friday morning and he hasn’t seen or heard from her since last Tuesday. And to think, two weeks—two _weeks_ —ago they were together, they had a proper date, she talked to him and he opened up to her and _fuck_.

            He doesn’t know what to expect anymore.

            She said she needed time, and true, it’s only been a week (and a half)—maybe he just needs to be a bit more patient—and he’d rather her take some time to think than push him away all together—

            But she said she was sure.

            Then she said she didn’t want people to know.

            Then she _did_.

            And now here they are.

            He has no idea where he stands.

\--- 

            At lunch he gets a text.

            _Can you come by tomorrow to talk?_

            And dammit but he can’t help the flicker of hope that flares to life.

            _Sure. What time?_

            _11? Henry’s going to his friend’s._

He idly wonders which one.

            (He hopes it’s not Scott. Scott’s mother seems a bit _too_ strict. He understands that violent video games are bad, and that it’s a fine line to walk, but prohibiting _laser tag?_ And _water pistols?_ It just seems to be taking things a step too far.)

            _See you then._

\---

            (He spends the rest of his workday trying to brace himself for the worst, as though that will help him should it turn out that the time apart has made her change her mind.)

            (It doesn’t work very well.)

\---

            And it’s like déjà vu, a little, walking up to his car and seeing her leaning against it, and he would assume it to be some trick of his mind except she’s looking even _more_ pregnant these days, and certainly more than she had that first time she met him here.

            ( _Maybe I missed you, too._ )

            “Did I get the days mixed up? I thought you said tomorrow,” he says by way of greeting.

(He desperately doesn’t want to get his hopes up but it’s not a game he’s winning right now.)

He stops a few feet from her. Doesn’t trust himself to stand too close.

            (And _God_ , but he’s missed her.)

            “Yeah, I did. I just—” She shrugs. “I didn’t want to wait.”

            He nods.

            “So. What are you thinking, love?”

            She takes a deep breath.

            (It must be a good thing, that she came to see him, right?)

            ( _Right?_ )

            “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m scared.” She shrugs. “I freaked out. I let Neal get to me—”

            (He wants to _kill_ Neal, hates this man that Emma gave her heart to, who was so clearly unworthy of it, who _broke_ it, who’s caused her so much pain and has made her so wary even _attempting_ to love again. It doesn’t even matter _what_ he said—what matters is that he offered his unwanted, unsolicited opinion and that it hurt her. Shook her.)

“I’m not—wasn’t ever good at this dating thing, and it’s worse because it’s you and I don’t want to mess this up but I feel like I already have. Or like I’m going to.”

(He wants to tell her that he’s not good at this either, that he’s scared, too, that they can be scared together, but the words are frozen on his tongue and maybe he needs to just let her talk, anyway.)

“And, yeah,” she continues with a slight shrug. “Maybe it would be easier to just not try, to just give up now, but—” She looks at him, then, properly, and smiles at him, and something loosens in his chest. “I missed you. Not seeing you and not talking to you _sucked_.”

            “Sucked for me, too,” he admits.  

            “Yeah?”

            (Like she’s blown away that he could miss her. _God_ , he wants to destroy Neal.)

            He nods, lets himself smile, then.

            ( _She’s not changing her mind._ )

            “I want to do this. For real. Officially. I mean it this time.”

            (And there’s a voice at the back of his mind telling him he shouldn’t trust her. That she’s said this all before, what makes this time different?)

            (And he knows it’s true, that there’s really nothing leading him to believe that this time things will stick, but—)

            (He would rather try, rather give this a shot, rather risk getting his heart broken, than turn her away and push her aside in the interest of self-preservation.)

            (God knows there’s no going back for him, anyway.)

            And she looks nervous, fidgeting a bit, waiting for his response. Run though she may, it’s never been because she isn’t invested. He understands that.

            So he says:

“Good.”

            And he tugs her toward him and she wraps her arms around him, hugging him as tightly as he’s hugging her.

            He breathes deep, heart full and beating fast and _relieved_ , _God_ , he’s so relieved, and he’s _missed_ her, it’s only been a week but he’s felt it, he’s missed talking to her, texting her, hearing her voice and seeing her. He’s gotten so used to it, the past few months—the past few weeks, even—nearly four weeks since she kissed him but it’s not enough, he wants more, he wants _so many things_ , but not just with anyone, he wants them with _her_ , a future and a life and for the past few days he’s been terrified that it wasn’t going to happen, that for every step forward they’d taken _this_ would send them all the way back and he _can’t_ , there’s no going back for him anymore. He wants this, her, he _loves_ her, all week it’s just been this terrible loop in his head, flashes of a life he _doesn’t_ want, flashes of her and him and the baby, being civil and curt and trading him off in parking lots and not being able to look each other in the eye and he didn’t want _that_ , but this—

            She buries her head in his chest and sighs.

            “I’m sorry for running away,” she murmurs.

            He nods.

            “But you came back.”

            She nods.

            He’s not sure how long, exactly, they stand there, but eventually they pull away, and he just looks at her for a moment.

            He’s not sure what to do now. They _almost_ broke up, or something, but now she’s here and she’s not running anymore, but what do they do now? Do they pick up where they left off, or is it two steps back, or—

            “Do you, uh,” she seems as unsure as he is and it’s comforting, a bit. “Do you want to get dinner with me and Henry?” she asks after a moment, looking up at him. Dinner. He can do that. He smiles at her, heart impossibly full.

            “Sounds fantastic.”

            She grins, then leans in and brushes her lips against his. Like it’s an easy gesture, like a habit, like it’s nothing at all, just a quick peck like it’s normal for them. It makes his breath hitch.

            “Pizza?”

            He nods, unable to form words. She takes a step back, cheeks rosy, either from the cold or from _this_ , he can’t tell, and he supposes it’s where they left off, then, and he’s itching to touch her again.

            “See you at my place, then,” she says.  

            She smiles widely, then wanders off to her car. He follows her with his eyes, rooted to the spot.

            He feels breathless and like he can breathe again, all at once.

\---

            Henry beams when he sees him.

            “Killian! Do you wanna play Mario Kart? Mom only lets me play on weekends now ‘cause of school, but Friday night counts as the weekend and I haven’t played since _Sunday_ , and—”

            “How ‘bout we eat first, okay, kid?” Emma says, unlocking the door so they can all go inside.

            “ _Fine_ ,” Henry sighs, walking ahead of them. Killian smiles at Emma.

            “Hello again.”

            “Hi,” she returns. He gives her a quick kiss (because _real_ and _official_ and he’s _missed_ her) and she smiles against his mouth. “Pizza should be here in twenty minutes.”

            “Sounds good,” he says, following her into the apartment and shutting the door behind him.

            “Mom! We don’t have popcorn!” Henry calls from the kitchen.

            “Do we need popcorn?” she calls back. She collapses on the couch and, after he’s removed his shoes and placed them by hers next to the door, he joins her, putting his arm around her and pulling her into his side.

            (He’s so ridiculously happy, being here with them, seeing his shoes next to hers.)

            Henry comes back into the room.

            “Yeah,” the boy says, the unspoken _duh_ ringing loud and clear.

            “We can get some tomorrow.”

            “But—”

            “We _just_ walked through the door, you’ve gotta give me a minute, kid.”

            “But how are we supposed to watch movies without popcorn?”

            “Oh, now it’s movies? I thought you guys were playing Mario Kart.”

            Henry rolls his eyes.

            “We can do both, Mom.” He turns to Killian, then. “I don’t have to go to bed until 10 since it’s Friday.”

            Killian nods, amused.

            (He’s missed them.)

            “We’re just gonna have to try to survive without popcorn,” Emma tells him. And Henry looks so put out—

            “I could go get some,” Killian suggests. “You could come with me, if you want, lad.”

            “You don’t have to—”

            “Yeah! Before the pizza gets here. And you can stay and rest, Mom. It’s the perfect plan.”

            “Yeah, Swan. We can’t watch movies without popcorn,” Killian adds with a grin. She looks from him to Henry.

            “Okay. If you guys really want to go.”

Henry cheers.

“But none of that kettle corn crap.”

            “It’s good!” Henry protests.

            “It’s not real popcorn, if we’re gonna do this we’re gonna do it right,” Emma tells him. Henry rolls his eyes before taking off toward his room.

            Killian gets up to grab his shoes as well. Emma grabs his arm before he can stand, though, and he turns to face her. She kisses him, this time, and what little bit of tension remained (the part of him that’s still unsure of where, exactly they stand now—how affectionate he can be when the lad’s around) dissipates.

            “Thank you.”

            (He gets that it’s about more than the popcorn.)

            “Of course.”

            He gives her another quick kiss, and he almost regrets it when Henry comes back into the room, but the boy doesn’t react at all, and she doesn’t, either. He’s struck, suddenly, by how easy this all feels. This is the first time they’ve all been together since Henry found out about them, and it’s _also_ the first time since their—fight? break?—but it’s like any other time he’s spent at their apartment. The only difference is that they’re not hiding this anymore.  

            It makes him smile.

            “Want anything else while we’re out?” he asks as they’re heading out the door.

            “No. I’ll call you if I think of something.”

            He nods, closing the door behind him. Henry smiles up at him as they walk to his car.

            “I’m glad you’re hanging out with us tonight,” Henry tells him.

            “I’m glad I’m hanging out with you guys, too.”

            Henry waits to speak again until they’re driving.

            “You and my mom were fighting this week, weren’t you?”

            Killian pauses.

            “What makes you say that?”

            Henry shrugs.

            “You didn’t come over, and Mom was sad. Are things okay now?”

            Perceptive one, this lad.

            “Yeah. Things are great.”

            “Good,” Henry says seriously. Then: “My dad doesn’t like you very much, you know.”

            Oh, he knows.

            “Ah, I’m sure that’s not true,” he says instead.

            “It is,” Henry says matter-of-factly. It makes Killian smile. “But don’t worry. Mom likes you, and Aunt Mary Margaret, and Uncle David. And, I like you,” he adds, turning to look out the window at that moment. Killian glances at him, taking in the slight flush on his cheeks.   

            “I’m rather fond of you, myself, lad,” he tells him.

            He keeps his eyes on the road but he can see Henry smiling out of the corner of his eye.

            “So your mum told me you were going over to a friend’s house tomorrow? Which friend is this?” he asks a few moments later.

            “Avery.”

            “Oh good. He seems like a decent fellow.”

\---

            (Henry talks him into getting candy, too, but Killian draws the line at ice cream.)

            (“We can’t get both.”)

            (“Mom likes both.”)

            (“I don’t imagine your mum likes you eating both at once, though, hmm?”)

            (“What if we crush up the candy bars and put them _in_ the ice cream?”)

            (“While I like the way you think, no.”)

            (“ _Fine_.”)

\---

            They’re in line when Emma texts him. _Can you get ice cream? Are you still there?_

            Henry grins smugly before running off to go get it.

\---

            They eat pizza and play Mario Kart and when Henry falls asleep on the couch Killian carries him to his room—and _he’s_ small, Killian can’t imagine what it’ll be like with the baby, how tiny he’ll be—

\---

            (And it feels so much like home it makes his chest ache.)

\---

            A week later and it’s—it’s all going well still. Emma is as open as ever with him—even more than before. He’d sort of expected it to be awkward, or stilted, or _something_ , but it’s like she’s—not trying harder, but something like that. They talk and text and meet for lunch one day and he goes by for dinner another night and she’s more free with her affection and it warms his heart, cements something inside him, makes him feel sure. (He imagines that’s her intention.)

            She invites him to go see an apartment with her on Saturday (Henry’s spending the night at Avery’s, so they drop him off and then go), and he’s pretty sure that people assume they’re married, literally any time they’re out in public anymore. Not that it bothers him—it really, _really_ doesn’t—but it’s a strange thing to realize. To know that the woman showing the apartment assumes they’re married.

            (She asks about the due date, have they picked a name, is this their first. He’s about to say yes when Emma says no, and that—that cements something, too.)

            And it’s probably the best apartment they’ve seen—good neighborhood, everything seemingly up to code, solid locks and faucets that don’t leak—

            But when he catches her standing by the living room window, looking out on the street—the way the sun hits her, the way she looks at peace, with her hand resting on her belly, soft smile tugging at her lips—

            That’s what sells it for him, really.

\---            

            “So, what do you think?” she asks as she lets them into her apartment.

            “I liked it. Everything seemed safe, good neighborhood—”

            “I stand by that one, that one on Seventh, it wasn’t _that_ terrible—”

            “I didn’t like it, it wasn’t a good area, I don’t want you living somewhere where I’m going to be worried you’ll get mugged if you get home too late.”

            She rolls her eyes at him but he thinks that, secretly, she likes his worrying after her.

            “Was the paint also up to your standards?” she asks, settling down on the couch.

            “Not my standards, Swan, actual building—”

            “I know, I know, I’m kidding.”

            He plops down next to her.

            “Really, though, I thought it was great.”

            “Yeah,” she agrees softly.

            “So what’s the issue?”

            “It’s a little out of my price range.”

            He pauses.

            “I know we haven’t really talked about it yet, but—when the baby’s born—I’ll help you out. Financially, that is.”

            “I know.”

            “If you like it, I say go for it. Submit an application.”

            (They’re both dancing around it, it’s too soon and yet it’s also _not_ , it’s—it sort of makes sense, and—)

            “You’re gonna be around a lot, when the baby’s born. Aren’t you?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Like, every few days?”

            He scratches behind his ear. “Probably every day. If possible.”

            (He’d like to be around everyday, forever. But he can’t exactly say that.)

            She lets out a breath, as if she’d been bracing for his answer.

            “I think—I think maybe we test it out.”

            “What?”

            She can’t _really_ be thinking about it, can she? Wasn’t she _just_ —didn’t she _just_ nearly break up with him, put an end to this whole thing?

            (He needs to remember—needs to remind himself that she wasn’t running because she _didn’t_ have feelings for him. She ran because she _did_. And moreover, she _didn’t_ change her mind. She picked him.)

            (So maybe she really _is_ suggesting it.)

            “This—the whole—living together.” She shrugs like it’s not a big deal (it’s a huge deal). His heart beats faster. “Maybe a week or so before you due date, you can come stay with us and then, I dunno, just—”

            “Potentially never leave.”

            She smiles wryly.

            “Look, newborns are hard work, and I’ve got another kid to take care of, too, so it might just be easier if you stayed here for that first week or so, if you want to help.”

            ( _First week_.)

            (He wants all the weeks.)

            “I do.” He looks down at his hands. “Are you sure this is a thing you want?”

            Because it’s still—as much as he’s over the moon—and he is, he’s so fucking thrilled—that they’re— _this_ —still—that she sought him out—came to his work to meet him _because she missed him_ , _again_ , because she decided that as much as she’s scared she still _wants_ this—

            He’s scared, too.

            That it’s not enough, that _he’s_ not enough, that he won’t be.

            That something will happen and he’ll fuck up and let her down and turn out to be like everyone else who’s ever hurt her.

            And he’s afraid she’ll get scared again, will run again—but will stay gone, will change her mind, will one day not want him anymore. He wants her—this—all of it—but he doesn’t want to push her. He doesn’t want her to want it because he does.

            He wants her to want him all on her own.

            She takes his hand, as if sensing the sudden change in his mood, and it helps, some. It grounds him— _she_ grounds him _._

            “I like it when you’re around,” she admits softly. “And I miss you when you’re gone. And I always want you to stay. So, yeah.” He looks up at her, then, and the way she’s smiling at him makes his heart beat faster, his whole body suddenly warmer. “This is a thing I want. To try, at least.”

            He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

            “You _always_ want me to stay?”

            Because he also can’t help teasing her.

            She hits his shoulder.

            “Shut up,” she says, and he laughs. “Will you temporarily move in with me when the baby’s born or not?”

            “Well, since you’ve asked so nicely.” He puts his arm around her, tugging her into his side, smiling wider when she wraps her arms around him in turn. “Yes, Swan, I’d love to temporarily move in with you three months from now.”

            “Less than that.”

            His heart stutters.

            _It’s so soon._

            “Yeah.”

            Pause.

            “Are you nervous?” she asks.

            “Are you?”

            She shrugs.

            “I’ve done this before. This is a whole new ballpark for you.”

            She’s right.

            (He’s terrified.)

            “A little,” he admits.

            “I think that’s normal.”

            “Oh, good.”

            “But I think you’re gonna be fine.”

            “Yeah?”

            She nods.

            “We need to come up with a name still.”

            He groans.

            “I know.”

            “I feel like it shouldn’t be this hard.”

            “Maybe we’re just ridiculously picky. Maybe we should just put a bunch of names on the wall and throw a dart, see where it lands.”

            She stills ever so slightly, but it’s enough to make him pause.

            “What is it?”

            “We did that. Not—not with names, or with darts.” She sucks in a breath. “Neal talked about—us settling down somewhere. Picked up a map and told me where my finger landed, that’s where we’d go.”

            He’s silent.

            “Tallahassee.” She pauses. “I’ve still never been there.”

            “Tell me something you remember that makes you smile,” he says softly.

            (Because as much as he loves—and he really does, he _loves_ that she talks to him more now—that she shares these things with him—he feels like it’s always the sad things. The parts of her past that have hurt her. He wants to know about the good things, too.)

            (Needs to know that there were good things.)

            “Something that makes me smile.”

            He presses a kiss to her temple, his grip on her tightening ever so slightly.

            “Anything.”

            “The book fair,” she says finally. “That was something that was the same, no matter what school I was at. I never had any money to buy anything, but I liked looking at all the shiny new books. And just the smell of them, you know?” She pauses, smiles to herself. “When I was nine the librarian told me I could pick a book. Any book, and I could have it, she’d get it for me.”

            “Which book did you choose?”

            “Goosebumps. Welcome to Dead House.”

            “Wouldn’t that kind of book give you nightmares?”

            “No. I was made of tougher stuff than that.” She looks up at him, grin pulling at her lips. “Why? Did those books give _you_ nightmares?”

            “Of course not, Swan, what do you take me for?”

            She smirks.

            “It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

            He scoffs.   
            “What about you? What’s something you remember that makes you smile?” she asks.

            He takes a moment. Sifts through the memories. It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone to share these sorts of things with. Been a long time since anyone’s _asked_.

            “My mum would bake me a cake, every year on my birthday. That was always our special treat—mum baked us a cake, or cookies or muffins—whatever our favorite sweet was—for our birthday dinner. Liam liked chocolate chip cookies, so mum made him some version of them every year, which was great because those lasted longer, you could make more at once. But I always asked her to make chocolate cake. And she’d make this strawberry filling, too, and with chocolate icing, and it was my absolute favorite.”

            “Chocolate cake and strawberry filling. Good to know,” is all she says.

            (They spend the rest of the afternoon trading stories, and occasionally kisses.)

            (And he loves her.)

\---

            (And he wants _more_.)


	17. Chapter 17

 

            She fucked up.

            She sees that now.

\---

            (He doesn’t text back and she knows he knows it, too.)

\---

            And of _course_ he’s going to insist on coming to the appointment. She’d hoped he would get the hint—he seemed to have gotten it—but no.

            _I’ll see you tomorrow_.

            But she doesn’t _want_ to see him.

            She’s afraid if she sees him she’ll lose her resolve and she’s—she made a mistake, she shouldn’t have done anything, shouldn’t have kissed him, shouldn’t have—she got his hopes up, and Henry’s, and it won’t work out, she’s terrible at this, she can’t do relationships, all the luck in the world couldn’t—she’s going to hurt him, probably already has and _God_ , she doesn’t deserve someone like him, doesn’t understand what he sees in her, he’s always—ever since that first night, he looks at her like she’s special, like she means something to him—he makes all these promises about how he won’t leave them, won’t be some deadbeat, won’t—

            But he can’t _know_ that. And anyway, even if he doesn’t—she’ll ruin it. She’ll—he’ll realize—

            Her parents didn’t want her, the Swans didn’t want her, Neal, fucking _Walsh_ , _God_ , what was she even playing at? Thinking this could work? Like this is some kind of damned fairy tale.

            She knows how she _wants_ this story to end.

            (But real life isn’t like that and she’s not cut out for happy endings.)

\---

            She doesn’t know why she waits for him. She should just go inside. Maybe he won’t show up. She almost hopes he doesn’t. Neal wouldn’t have. If she’d pulled something like this with him—

            (And it’s funny, because she never held back with Neal. She gave him everything, and he _still_ —)

\---

            Killian shows up. Five minutes early.

            He holds the door open for her, lets his hand fall to the small of her back, and it’s not a new thing, he always does this, but he shouldn’t, she doesn’t deserve this kindness, not when she’s pushing him away and they both know it.

            (He seems to catch himself and shoves his hands in his pockets soon after.)

            ( _This_ is what she deserves.)

\---

            He’s asking the doctor questions, nodding and listening intently. And he’s a good man. She doesn’t think he believes that. She does. He’s one of the best men she’s met, and she so wasn’t expecting that.

            She could’ve done a lot worse.

            _Has_ done a lot worse.

            And _God_ , but he already loves this kid.

            (Sometimes she thinks he loves her, too.)

            (Good thing she’s put an end to that.)

\---

            ( _She fucked up_.)

\---

            And he wants her to _explain_ , _God_ , why can’t he just—

            Why can’t he just let her be?

            He reaches out for her and she should shrug him off, move away but she—she wants more than anything to bury her face in his chest and tell him, everything, all the things she’s afraid of because of all the things she feels for him but it’s _scary_ , it’s too much, she _can’t_ , she—

            “Talk to me, love.”

            And _fuck_ , she _can’t_ she he calls her that, and she knows it’s just a stupid endearment he uses on everyone, probably, but it makes her feel special or something equally stupid and she’s done this before, she’s let her guard down and given her heart away and look how well _that_ went, and—

            “ _Emma_.”

            (He says her name like he loves her. Like he _cares_ , like she matters, like she’s precious. Even when she’s trying to push him away.)

            “I’m just not sure that it’s a good idea to spend so much time together,” she tells him. She’s already told him this, but— “Henry’s noticed, and Neal—”

            “What did he say?” he asks, eyes dark.

            “Nothing.”

            “Emma—”

            “He didn’t—he just said it sounded like you’d been around a lot lately, and then Henry asked if you were moving in with us, and it—”

            “It scared you,” he finishes in a whisper. She nods.

            And it sounds so stupid—she feels so stupid for all of this, for getting so worked up, for being so damn scared. Wasn’t she over this? Didn’t she—didn’t she decide that she wanted it more than she was afraid of it? Didn’t she decide that the potential reward was greater than the risk? Hadn’t she wrestled with all this _before_ she kissed him, _before_ they started this whole _more_ thing, before—

             ( _You seem pretty sure of this guy._ )

But he’s not just some _guy_. He’s Killian, he’s—

He’s her friend, her support, someone she can be sure of because he hasn’t let her down yet, and God knows she’s not an easy person to like, or—

( _Good luck with that._ )

(And just the _way_ he said it, like it couldn’t possibly—like _she_ couldn’t possibly—and he would know, because they were together and she wasn’t enough then, she wasn’t worth sticking around for then so what’s changed? How is this different?)

And he’s looking at her so intently, so concerned, for _her_.

            “He’s getting his hopes up,” she says, but what she means is: _I’m getting my hopes up, too_.

            What she means is: _I’m falling for you._

            (If she’s _really_ being honest—and at this point why not—what she _really_ means is that she knows that she’s already there)

            “Is that—is that such a bad thing?” he questions, smiling slightly.

            “Killian—”

            “Not the—” He sighs. “Emma, I’m not going anywhere.”

He keeps saying it and every time she starts to believe it a little more, and then he does something that backs it up, makes her feel like she can trust his words, and she feels like such a terrible person that he needs to keep telling her, like she should just _know,_ like she should be able to accept it by now, he shouldn’t have to keep proving himself, but she _can’t_. “It’s okay if Henry gets attached because I’m here to _stay_.”

            (And _God_ , she wants him to stay.)

(But—)  
            “Do you know what he said?” she asks, taking a step back (because as much as he comforts her, grounds her—she needs—she needs distance, she needs to explain, she can’t keep falling apart in his arms and expecting him to save her, pick up the pieces for her. She needs to figure out her own goddamn pieces).

He doesn’t chase her, doesn’t step toward her, and she takes a breath before continuing.

“When I told him that it was still early, that we were still figuring stuff out, that it might not work out? Do you know what Henry’s response was?”

He shakes his head.

“‘Like you and Dad.’”

            (It’s been on repeat in her head ever since he said it.)

            (She wanted _more_ for her son.)

            “Emma—”

            He reaches for her but she takes another step back. She can’t let herself fall into his arms, she needs to figure her shit out.

            “I don’t want him getting hurt, I don’t want the baby getting hurt, I—”

            “ _You_ don’t want to get hurt, either. Right?” he interrupts, and he’s frustrated, she can tell. His eyes are flashing and he’s clenching is hands and this is better—he _should_ be angry. He should be furious at her. She’d rather _this_ than the sadness.

“Best quit while we’re ahead, is that it?” he continues. “Let’s not bother seeing where this goes, let’s just call it off.”

            She can’t look at him right now.

            ( _What is she doing, why is she doing this, she loves—_ )

            “It’s probably better this way,” she mumbles.

            “ _No_ , it’s _not_ ,” he grounds out. “ _God_ , Emma, how can you—you don’t really believe that, do you?” And he sounds equal parts angry and sad, _confused_ , genuinely asking her, and it makes her chest ache.

(Her chest has been aching for the past three days, she’s an _idiot_.)

“You know what I think?” he says, leaning in closer. “I think you can see this working out—I think you have real feelings for me and I think you _want_ this, and I think that terrifies you more than anything. And _that’s_ why you’re running away.”

            He’s right.

            That’s it exactly.

            She can see a future with him—a happy one—and it scares her because girls like her don’t get fairy tale endings like this. Something’s gotta give. There has to be some sort of catch. And she—she was stupid to try, to kiss him, to make him think this could work when it so clearly _can’t_ , to make Henry—

            She can’t do this to them.

            Any of them.

            (And _God_ , there’s a baby growing inside of her and he’ll probably look like him, and she just _knows_ Killian’s going to be wonderful with him, remembers the look on his face when they first heard the heartbeat, the way his eyes lit up when he first felt him kick, curled up in her bed and talking about names and it is _so different_ than it was with Henry so _why_ does she feel exactly the same, like she can’t do this, like she’s not ready, like she needs to give him his best chance and it can’t _possibly_ be with her— _why_ hasn’t it gotten better yet?)

            “Emma, I—” He pauses. Opens his mouth and then thinks better of it. He sighs softly, head dropping. “Please don’t run away from me.”

            (He heart breaks just a little bit more.)

            “Killian—”

            And she almost reaches for him, almost just says fuck it and reaches for his hand but she doesn’t. She’s probably imagining the flash of disappointment.

            She takes a deep breath.

            “I need to think,” she tells him. “I just need some time to—I’m sorry, I know this isn’t fair, but—”

            It’s _so_ unfair, she’s _awful_ , absolutely doesn’t deserve him, but she’s just selfish enough that she still wants him. And maybe—maybe she just needs time. Needs to work out all these issues for herself. Clear her head and figure her shit out.

            (He kisses her on the forehead and she _can’t_ —she can’t deal with him, with his tenderness and the way he cares about her.)

            “Take—take some time, then,” he says softly. He smiles slightly            and pulls her into his arms and she shouldn’t, probably, but she lets herself hug him, lets herself take comfort in the feel of his arms around her, his chest rising and falling, soft and warm and _safe_.

She needs to make a decision. She can’t do this to him. She needs to deal with all this fear and she needs to either figure out how to stop running, or run for good. She can’t ask him to wait forever.

(But she gives herself another moment before she pulls away.)

“Talk to you later, then?” he asks, and she can tell he’s trying to act casual, all forced smiles and careful looks to gauge how _she’s_ doing.  

            She nods.

            “Yeah.”

            He nods, this time, meeting her eyes once more before dropping them to the ground, backing away and walking to his car.

            (She _doesn’t_ watch him go, and she _doesn’t_ call in sick.)

            (Absolutely does _not_ sit at home crying because she might have ruined this already, because if she did, she’d have no one to blame but herself.)

\---

            Here’s the thing, here’s—

            She wants to be with him. That’s not the issue. This—between them—she wants it. That’s never been a question in her mind. She wants him.

            The problem is _her_.

            (She’s always the problem.)

\---

            She almost skips Wednesday lunch. There’s no way she’ll be able to hide the bags under her eyes, no way she’ll be able to lie her way around this. But maybe—maybe she needs to talk to her friends about this. Maybe they can shed light on this.

            (Maybe they can help convince her that she’s being stupid and that she should apologize and pray that she hasn’t completely fucked up and driven him off. Because he maybe have told her to take her time, but she can’t just _assume_ that he’ll really wait, can’t assume that he’ll welcome her back with open arms. Even if that’s what she would want. She can’t expect that.)

            “You look like crap,” Ruby says. She narrows her eyes. “What happened?”

            _Nothing_ is on the tip of her tongue but she needs— _wants_ to talk about this with them. She sighs.

            “Things are—with Killian—”

            She doesn’t even know what to call it. Are they broken up? It feels like they were barely dating—and _dating_ feels like the wrong word in the first place for what they were. Are. Had been. Is ‘taking a break’ a better phrasing for it? Possibly.

            “What happened?” Mary Margaret repeats.

            “I—”

            “You ended things, didn’t you?” Ruby asks. Emma looks down. Ruby sighs. “Oh, Emma.”

            “I didn’t—I told him I needed time. To think.”

            “About _what?_ Jesus, Emma.”

            “I know, I _know_.”

            “ _What_ happened?”

            So she tells them about Neal asking about him, about her conversation with Henry.

            Her conversation with _him_.

            Ruby reaches out when she’s finished and covers her hand with hers, eyes serious.

            “Emma, I love you, so I’m only going to say this once. Neal is an ass and you need to stop caring so much about what he thinks.”

            “I don’t—”

            Ruby scoffs.

            “You _so_ do. He says _one_ thing and you break up with Killian over it.”

            “I didn’t—”

            “No, you just tried,” Mary Margaret says with a sigh, eyes softening. “You act like he knows you so well, like that fact that things didn’t work with him means that you can’t do this, but Emma—you weren’t the problem there. He was.”

            “I thought you liked Neal,” Emma mutters.

            “I did. Or, I wanted to. You were so hurt—I don’t know. I thought there would’ve been something poetic about him being the one to put your heart back together again.”

            “ _After_ he broke it,” Ruby mumbles.

            “The point is, he’s not good for you, and Ruby’s right. His opinion shouldn’t— _doesn’t_ —mean anything. Killian cares about you, Emma.”

            She knows that.

            “I just don’t want to hurt him,” she says weakly. “I don’t want it to fall apart and for Henry to see that, and the baby.”

            ( _Like you and Dad._ )

            Mary Margaret smiles sadly at her.

            “But Emma, you’re already hurting him. And you’re hurting you, too.”

\---

            (The problem is it feels like it’s her fault—like it’s always her fault. That whatever happens is her fault and any pain that comes from it—it’s on her.)

\---

            And _God_ , she misses him. Misses his stupid smile and the way his voice gets when they’re talking on the phone and it gets late, all low and sleepy. Misses the way he texts her throughout the day, just random messages or name suggestions, misses meeting him for lunch, the way he tugs her into him for a hug, the way he smiles against her lips when he kisses her, how stupidly blue his eyes are and how ridiculously soft they get when he talks about the baby. When he looks at her.

She misses talking to him and waking up next to him—the thought that she might not, ever again—might not get a lot of things with him ever again—

She fucked up and she pushed him away because she was scared and it’s funny because she was afraid she would lose him then and now—

Nothing has changed.

\---

            (This is exactly what she wanted and she _really_ doesn’t know herself because this is so far from what she wants.)

\---

            “Mom? Is everything okay?”

            She’s tucking him into bed (he may complain that he’s too old but he still lets her, and she wants to hold onto these moments as long as she can because he’s growing up so fast, and it doesn’t matter that soon she’ll have another little one ( _little one_ ) to read stories to) and it catches her off guard, his question. She smiles and brushes the hair out of his eyes. She needs to take him for a hair cut soon. Maybe this weekend.

            “Yeah. Everything’s fine.I’m just tired.”

            He looks skeptical.

            “Is Killian gonna hang out with us this weekend?”

            Her heart squeezes uncomfortably. She’d managed to make excuses for why Killian hadn’t come around for the past few days, but she knows he’s noticed, and he apparently hasn’t believed her.

            “I dunno, kid. He might be busy again.”

            ( _He might hate me_.)

            “Oh.”

            “If not, we’ll still have a good time. Maybe we can go to the movies.”

            “Yeah.” He smiles at her. “I love you, Mom.”

            “Love you, too, kid.” She kisses him on the forehead and then walks to the door. “Get some sleep, okay?”

            “Okay.” He pauses like he wants to say something else, but smiles at her again instead. “Good night, Mom.”

\---

            And _God_ , even her _son_ knows something’s wrong.

            And is _this_ the message she wants to send him? That you should let fear win, that you shouldn’t even _try_ , that some things aren’t even worth fighting for?

            (She thinks— _knows_ —that Killian is something worth fighting for. That this thing between them is real, and—and maybe Ruby and Mary Margaret are right. Maybe she needs to let Neal go.)

            (Maybe she needs to stop blaming herself for that.)

            (Maybe she should just let herself have this. Let him love her. Let _herself_ —)

\---

            She loves him.

            _Fuck_.

            She’s in love with him.

            And she sort of knew, sort of knew she was heading for that—was falling—but she’s—she’s in love with him. She doesn’t _want_ to try to get over him, doesn’t _want_ to push him away anymore—she wants to _try_. She wants to be who he comes home to at the end of the day, she wants to make him smile like he makes her smile, she wants to comfort him and hold his hand, wants to be safe for him like he is for her.

            She _loves_ him. And she’s been—she’s been selfish.

            No more.

\---

            She doesn’t call him that night.

            She figures she shouldn’t spring this on him at 11:30 at night. On the phone.

            She’ll—she’ll figure something else out.

\---

            She doesn’t call him in the morning, either. Her finger hovers over the _call_ button but she can’t work up the courage to press it.

            Finally she types out a message.

            _Can you come by tomorrow to talk?_

            He responds right away.

            _Sure. What time?_

            _11? Henry’s going to a friend’s._

            It takes a moment.

            Then:

            _See you then_.

\---

            And it’s like a revelation or something, like she can see clearly—

            And he’s _not_ Neal. Nothing about him—yes, the circumstances are a little weird—it’s not exactly a great ‘how did you guys meet’ story—but _everything_ about the way that this has all unfolded is better and healthier than it was with Neal. Everything about how he is with her—how he treats her—

            She trusts him. And she knew that—realized that—a while ago, but she let herself get scared, she let herself doubt him—doubt _her_ —

            She let all sorts of other stuff—old stuff, past stuff, stuff she’s gotten so much better with—get into her head. And she forgot about him. Let all the outside forces affect her when she should’ve looked at them, how they work, how they are together, because when they’re together—

            He makes her feel safe, he makes her feel like it’s okay to be vulnerable, he makes her feel like it’s okay to open up. He holds her and dries her tears but he shares himself with her, too, lets himself be vulnerable, too. He follows her lead and respects her boundaries—respects _her_ —and she—

            She loves him.

            (It’s like this recurring thought she can’t get out of her head, like now that she’s admitted it to herself she can’t unthink it, can unfeel it, _she loves him, she loves him, she loves him_.)

\---

            And she knows she said tomorrow but—

            Fuck it.

\---            

            It’s as she’s waiting by his car that she starts to panic, a little. What if, in the course of the last few days, he’s decided he doesn’t want to do this anymore? With the way she’s so—

            But she’s not going to run. She’s going to—she’s making a choice. She chooses _him_. Whether he—regardless of his choice. She was being selfish before but he deserves this, he deserves her apology, and he deserves her honesty.

            And he looks so surprised to see her—and she understands, she does—and she remembers another time she surprised him here, remembers how he smiled at her and teased her and— _I missed you, too._

            “Did I get the days mixed up? I thought you said tomorrow,” he says, stopping a safe distance away from her.

“Yeah, I did. I just—” She shrugs. “I didn’t want to wait.”

            He nods, looking down at his feet.

            “So. What are you thinking, love?”

            It makes her breath hitch still. _Love_.

            “I’m sorry,” she says. He doesn’t react, so she continues. “You’re right. I’m scared. I—I freaked out. I let Neal get to me—”

            She sighs. She hates Neal still sometimes. But she’s starting to understand that he’s not so much the bad guy here. Wouldn’t have the opportunity to be if she didn’t still hold onto him. If she didn’t let him have so much power over her still. 

“I’m not—wasn’t ever good at this dating thing, and it’s worse because it’s you and I don’t want to mess this up but I feel like I already have. Or like I’m going to. And, yeah, maybe it would be easier to just not try, to just give up now, but—”

And she lets herself look at him then, his messy hair and blue, blue eyes (and he looks so sad and hopeful all at once, and so tired, and she wonders if he’s been having trouble sleeping, too, and it makes her _ache_ , she wants to reach for him but she needs to finish talking first, needs to get all this out.)

“I missed you this week,” she confesses. She hopes he can hear how sincere she is. “Not seeing you and not talking to you _sucked_.”

            “Sucked for me, too,” he says softly.

            Her heart speeds up.

            “Yeah?”

            He nods, smiling slightly, and it spurs her on.

            “I want to do this. For real. Officially. I mean it this time.”

            He just looks at her, like he’s considering her words, considering _her_ , and she tries not to fidget too much under his gaze.

            That’s it. Her cards on the table. Now she has to wait. Let _him_ decide.

            For so long he’s let her lead, let her make the choice. Has simply followed.

            For the first time she’s waiting on him. At _his_ mercy.

            (It should be terrifying because he could absolutely hurt her in this moment. She’s shared more with him than with almost anyone—he could absolutely throw those things at her—not only reject her, but hurt her, too. And yet she trusts that he won’t.)

            (Maybe that’s part of love.)

            She doesn’t know how long they stand there. But then he smiles at her. Properly smiles at her, and she feels the air shift, feels the change between them.

            All he says is:

“Good.”

And then he pulls her into him, and she sighs into his chest, relieved and happy and lighter than she’s been all week.

“I’m sorry for running away,” she tells him. She feels his breath hitch and it stirs something in her chest, makes her eyes prick with tears. He nods.

“But you came back.”

(She loves him. There’s no way she could’ve stayed away forever.)

\---

            And it’s like whenever she’s with him, she can’t understand why she gets so worried, why she gets so scared because when she’s with him it’s easy, he _fits_ , with her, with Henry—he fits into their apartment and their lives like he was always there, his shoes next to hers and his arm around her and offering to pick something up at the store, shooting her an easy smile as he and Henry leave.

             Mary Margaret texts her a few minutes after they go. _Want to come by for dinner?_

_No thanks. Killian’s here, Henry’s planning some sort of movie marathon._

Pause.

            _That sounds great. Give them my best._

\---

            (He reminds Henry to use a napkin to wipe his hands, not his jeans, and announces, twenty minutes into _Fellowship of the Ring_ that they should name the baby Gandalf.)

            (She is _so_ far gone for this man.)

\---

            Next Wednesday lunch goes much better than the last.

            “So everything’s okay again?”

            “Everything’s okay again.”

            “Thank God. I thought we were going to have to intervene,” Ruby tells her.

            “Glad it didn’t come to that.”

            “But seriously. Everything’s good?”

            She thinks about lunch with him yesterday, how he kissed her so soft and sweet before she left, thinks about his text this morning. ( _Birthing class—a thing we should be looking into?_ )

            “Yeah. Everything’s great.”

\---

            She finds an apartment that sounds great on paper—perfect, even—so she asks him if he’ll see if with her.

            (Because Henry’s got a sleepover.)

            And she gets that people assume they’re married. It used to bother her, a little (not that it ever stopped her thinking about how Emma Jones would sound—practically turning her into a middle schooler, writing his names in hearts in her notebook during social studies) but she just goes with it now. Holds his hand and rolls her eyes fondly as he checks the locks.

            He seems impressed with this one, though, going on about how much natural light there is and how that’s a great thing (he’s ridiculous and she loves him for it).

            “When are you due?” the agent asks as they wander through the apartment.

            “January,” she says with a smile, rubbing her belly (she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it anymore).

            “So you’re looking to move before that I gather.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you know what you’re having?”

            “A boy.”

            The woman smiles.

            “Oh, boys are such fun.” She glances over at Killian, who’s checking the hinges on the cupboards. “Is this your first?”

            He turns as if to answer but she beats him to it.

            “No. Already have one who’s 10.”

            She can feel his eyes on her but he doesn’t say anything. Just smiles and says ‘thank you’ when the woman offers her congratulations to them.

            (She doesn’t know why she did it, but the way he looks at her—she’s glad she did.)

\---

            And she may have told Henry it’s too soon—and it is—

            But she likes having him around. Likes being with him. And he’s going to want to be around when the baby’s born anyway, so—a test run. See how it goes.

            (And if he just never leaves—well. She’s perfectly fine with that outcome.)

\---

            She wonders when the last time someone made him chocolate cake with strawberry filling was.

            When the last time someone made him _anything_ was.

            And it kills her because he _had_ something, he _had_ a family, a mother who loved him, whom he loved, a brother he can barely talk about because the loss hurts him so—

            He had these things and he lost them, and sometimes she still sees flashes of it, this sad little boy adrift in a new place with no one to take care of him. He remembers what it’s like to have people, and he doesn’t anymore.

            ( _Didn’t_.)

            She has the pain of not having had anyone, until she had Neal—then Henry, then this little rag tag family she’s built with her friends here.

            He has the pain of losing the family he did have.

            They both know what it’s like to be without.

            (No more.)

\---

            (She puts in an application for the apartment. Henry’s a bit put out that he didn’t get to see it, but she tells him about it, with as much detail as she can, and he says he hopes they get it, and does he get to pick his room?)

            (And if they _do_ get this apartment, the baby will have his own room, too.)

\---

            _So, what are your plans four weekends from now?_

_What did you have in mind, Swan?_

_Wanna help me move?_

_Sounds like a plan. :)_


	18. Chapter 18

**eighteen.**

“So, Killian. I have a question.”

            “What is it, lad?”

            He can feel Henry’s eyes on him so he turns to face him. 

            “Will you help me plan a surprise for my mom’s birthday?” 

            (And he feels like her birthday is _probably_ something he should’ve known about.)

            “Of course. What were you thinking?”

            “Well,” and Henry leans his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Not a _party_ ‘cause she doesn’t really like those. But we have to do _something_ , right?”

            “Right.”

            “I wanna make her a cake but I can’t keep that a secret, you know? And you can’t really hide a cake.”

            Killian agrees. (Also doesn’t think Henry should be operating an oven by himself.) Henry looks over at him again.

            “What do you think?” Henry asks.

            He pauses to consider.

            “You could make the cake here,” is all he can come up with.

            But Henry’s right. They need to do _something_.

\---

            It’s not how he expected to spend his Friday night.

Emma had mentioned that Ruby and Mary Margaret wanted to get together at some point (before the move and the baby and the holidays and the chaos that would probably lead up to it all), and while she didn’t ask he offered to pick Henry up from school anyway, told her he’d watch him so that she could go out. Figured it would be a nice opportunity to spend time with Henry, and to let Emma have a break.

So he got Henry from school, and they went for ice cream and to the arcade (Killian showed Henry Galaga, and they played several rounds of air hockey), and then it was back to Killian’s apartment and for pizza.

(Henry had slipped off his shoes and put his backpack on a chair at the table, wandering around and looking at the books on the shelves, peering into the cupboards. Killian had just stood back and let him, watching Henry sweep through his space with that critical, curious eye.

“How come you don’t have any pictures?”

“Never been one for taking them.”

“Are you gonna have pictures of the baby?”

“I’ve already got one on the fridge.”

 Henry had nodded then, and wandered over to the couch—inspection apparently complete—and Killian had felt as though he’d passed some sort of test.)

            And now here they sit, on his couch, the remnants of their pizza dinner strewn on the coffee table, _The Sword and the Stone_ playing in the background, trying to plan something for Emma’s birthday.

            (“We need to have a code name.”)

            (“A code name?”)

            (“In case we need to talk about it in front of my mom. I say we call it Operation Tiger.”)

            (“Operation Tiger it is, then.”)

            So far they have a cake. So far they know that Killian will pick Henry up from school, unknown to Emma, and they will bake her a cake and then surprise her with it at work. And then dinner? Or something? Those details are fuzzier.

            “Should we invite David and Mary Margaret and Ruby?”

            “Maybe. Or maybe it could just be us. You know,” Henry says with a shrug.

(Killian doesn’t know.)

            (All he knows is that they’re getting further and further into _family_ territory, into being a _unit_ , and it’s wonderful and terrifying and frankly he doesn’t want to share Emma with anyone else on her birthday, he’s all for celebrating just the three (four) of them, _that_ sounds like a plan.)

            “How about, we make her a cake, and surprise her at work, and then let _her_ decide how we spend the evening?” Killian suggests.

            “Okay. Should we pretend to forget it’s her birthday? Really surprise her?”

            It could backfire. It could go poorly.

            “Yes, let’s do that, too.”

\---

            A few hours later and he’s dropping Henry off, only he falls asleep in the car and Killian tries to wake him when they arrive, he does, but he’s all bleary eyed and stumbling, so Killian takes the backpack from him and puts it on, and carries him up to the apartment.

            (Henry may be ten but he’s a little boy still, seems even younger with the way he wraps his arms around Killian’s neck as if by instinct and curls into him, mumbling something about Star Wars.)

            “Hey,” Emma greets, visibly softening when she takes the two of them in.

            “Fell asleep on the way,” he whispers. She opens the door for him to come in, then trails him to Henry’s room. He steps back once he sets the boy down on his bed, lets Emma get his coat and his shoes before covering him with his blankets and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Henry stirs, mumbles, and then drops off again.

            Killian smiles to himself and follows Emma out of the room, shutting the door behind him as he goes.

            “Hi,” he says, wrapping Emma up in a hug and pressing his lips to hers.

            “Hi,” she returns with a grin. “Everything go okay?”

            “Yeah. We had fun.”

            “Good.”

            “And how was your evening?”

            “It was really great.” She smiles at him and kisses him again, just a quick brush of lips. “Thanks for keeping him.”

            “Of course.”

            He kisses her again, a little longer this time.

            “Wanna stay for a bit?” she asks.

            He nods, and she pulls away to lead him by the hand back to the living room, sitting down on the couch and resting her head on his shoulder once he’s joined her. He wraps his arm around her and sighs.

            _This_ is everything he wants, moving forward. Easy affection and asking her about her day and kisses in the hallway after Henry’s asleep.

            “So the baby shower party thing’s next weekend. Is that okay?”

            “Should be fine. I’ll let Tink know.”

            “Anyone else you want to invite? From work maybe?”

            “I wondered if I might ask Jefferson—he’s got a daughter around Henry’s age, I think. And perhaps Smee as well.”

            “Yeah. The more the merrier, right?”

            He nods.

            “How are you feeling?”

            “In general or about the party?”

            “Both. Either.”

            She shrugs.

            “Okay I guess. It’s really soon. I mean we still have eight weeks and it sounds like a lot—plus the move—it just feels like a lot’s happening.”

            He nods.

            “But, I dunno. I think I’m kinda looking forward to the party now.”

            “Good.” He kisses the side of her head. “I’m looking forward to it, too. The party, and the baby.”

            “Glad to hear it.”

            He pulls her a little closer, revels in the way she snuggles into him, takes his hand and rests it on her belly. She’d told him the baby had been moving around and kicking a bit less (and he’s read about this) so it’s not a surprise not to feel much of anything, but it’s still—

            He doesn’t want to leave, he wants to stay here on the couch with her, he wants to follow her down the hall to her bedroom, fall into bed with her and curl up around her, wants to wake up with her and kiss her good morning and have breakfast with her and Henry and never have to leave—he wants to stay, with her, with them, forever.

            “Want me to come by tomorrow? Help pack?”

            She nods.

            Then—

            “Might be easier if you just stayed,” she says softly. His heart stutters.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.” She shrugs. “If you want to.”

            (It’s everything he wants.)

            He nods, and when she looks up at him he smiles. She kisses him, then, just a quick soft thing, and then turns the TV off and stands.

            In two weeks she’ll move into the new apartment. In six he’ll (temporarily) (or perhaps not so temporarily) move in as well. In eight (or so) the baby will arrive and he will be a _father_ —have an actual _child_. A _son_.

            With _Emma_.

            (Sometimes when he thinks back on everything that’s happened in the last thirty-two weeks he loses his breath, he’s so overwhelmed by it all.)

            (But when she takes his hand and it’s like taking a deep breath—like feeling full and at peace and content, all at once.)

\---

            He wakes slowly, and at first he’s not sure what woke him, but then he hears the sound of a door being shut with absolute care, and when he glances up he sees the doorknob twist.

            And as Emma is still asleep beside him (he tries not to dwell on how used to this he could become) (how used to it he already _is_ ) he knows it must’ve been Henry.

            And they didn’t talk about this part. He assumed she wasn’t going to try to sneak him out; he’s moving in soon anyway (for a little while, not forever) (not yet), and Henry knows (and took the news with a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal at all), so, really, it shouldn’t be an issue for Henry to know that he stayed over.

            But it’s the first time he’s stayed over when Henry’s here, and it—he knows that this is probably a big deal, or at least a step, and he almost wishes Emma were awake to take the lead in this, but she’s not, and she needs her rest, so he won’t wake her, and he imagines Henry was probably going to ask her about breakfast or something, and he can’t leave the boy to starve simply because he doesn’t know how to handle the situation—

            So he, carefully so as not to wake Emma, gets out of bed, slips his jeans back on, and heads to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him.

            Henry’s standing in front of the cupboard, hair mussed from sleep, regarding the cereal selection. He’s in pajamas covered in rocket ships (he must’ve woken in the night and changed) and when he sees Killian he smiles.

            “Hi, Killian,” he says, as though this is normal.

            (It could be, couldn’t it?)

            “Morning, lad. Hungry?”

            He nods.

            “What do you think—Frosted Flakes, or Lucky Charms?”

            Killian joins him at the cupboard, regards the boxes of cereal and Rice-a-Roni and pasta and spaghetti sauce.

            “How about pancakes instead?” he offers, seeing the box(es) of mix at the top.

            “You know how to make pancakes?”

            “Of course I do,” he tells him, grabbing one of the boxes and moving to the stove. “Want to help?”

            “Sure!”

            “So we’ll need eggs and water. Where are the measuring cups, and pans? Also a whisk.”

            “Can I mix the batter?”

            “Aye.”

            They manage to find everything they need with minimal searching every drawer and cupboard in kitchen (he’s done this once before, but Emma was here), and soon he’s pouring ingredients into a large bowl and telling Henry to make sure he mixes _everything_ , even those clumps on the side.

            “Can you flip the pancakes in the air?” Henry asks.

            “I’ve not quite mastered that trick yet.”

            “Can you try?”

            (He does. It doesn’t end well. But Henry laughs, and this—this _domesticity_ —it warms him in a way he’s not felt in quite some time—possibly ever—and he thinks he’d fail at flipping pancakes all morning just to hear the sound again.)

            “Can you make hot chocolate, too?”

            “Sure.”

            “Mom and me like our hot chocolate with cinnamon on top. So does Mary Margaret.”

            “I’ll be sure to add some, then.”

            Henry glances at the doorway, then leans closer to Killian and lowers his voice.

            “We should bring Mom hot chocolate, too. For Operation Viper.”

            “Excellent idea, lad,” he agrees, dropping his voice as well.

            Henry beams at him, and his heart clenches, and—

            He loves Emma, and he loves the baby, but—but he realizes then that he loves Henry, too. And perhaps it’s a strange thing to realize, but it hits him so suddenly in that moment, the depth of feeling for this boy, the urge to protect and comfort and just be there, always—to see him smile and make him pancakes and engage in Operations with him.

            His heart just feels so full, in this cramped apartment that’s half in boxes already, with Emma and her boy, and he never wants to leave.

            (With any luck, he won’t have to.)

\---

            (When Emma walks into the kitchen a few minutes later there are pancakes on the table and Killian’s pouring the hot chocolate.

            “Mom! We made breakfast!”

            “I can see that.”

            Killian gets a kiss, then, and a soft smile as he hands her a mug.)

\---

            Two nights later he gets a call from Emma.

            “Hello?”

            “ _Killian? It’s Henry._ ”

            Or perhaps not.

            “Hello, lad. Is everything all right?”

            “ _Yeah._ ” There’s a muffled sound on the other end. “ _I’m calling about Operation Tiger. Mom’s in the shower so I only have a minute._ ”

            Killian smiles.

            “What is it?”

            “ _Can we go to Target or something so I can get her a card?_ ” he asks.

            “Sure. We’ll pick that up straight away, before the cake. Sound good?”

            “ _Yeah._ ”

            “I was also thinking of getting her flowers,” he tells him. “What do you think?”

            “ _Yeah, she’ll like that. Last time you gave her flowers she kept ‘em in the kitchen until they died, and she_ still _didn’t wanna throw them out._ ”

            Killian’s smile grows wider.

            “So flowers are a yes.”

            There’s a pause, then—

            “ _I have to go. But I’ll see you Friday?_ ”

            “2:45 sharp.”

            “ _Promise?_ ”

            (Killian can’t help the wince. Wonders how many times Neal’s shown up late.)

            “Promise.”

            (Vows never to be that father.)

            “ _Bye, Killian._ ”

            “Goodbye, lad.”

\---

            He meets Emma for lunch on Tuesday. She looks tired, and stressed, and beautiful. He gathers her up in a hug and feels her sigh into his neck.

            “Everything all right?” he asks.

            “Yeah. Just a lot right now.”

            He nods and presses a kiss to her hair.

            “Hey, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” she asks as they sit down.

            “No plans.”

            (He can’t remember the last time he had proper Thanksgiving plans.)

            (That’s a lie.)

            (He was 19, and it worked out that he and Liam would be spending a few hours in the same airport, and so he got to see his brother for the first time in over a year, and they celebrated over beers (because they were overseas) and overpriced burgers in one of the airport restaurants.)

            (Every year since has spent either in the Navy, or in that daze he wandered around in after everything—alone, basically.)

            Emma gazes searchingly at him, and he knows she sees something of that past there by the quick slight nod.

            (He imagines she knows how that goes. Having no one to spend the holidays with.)

            “Henry and I usually always go to David and Mary Margaret’s,” she tells him. She takes a sip of her water. “You should come.”

            He can’t help the way his heart squeezes a bit at the invitation, the smile that works its way across his face.

            (At the way it truly _is_ an invitation—the way that she gives him an out, gives him the chance to turn it down.)

            (As if he’d want to.)

            “I’d like that,” he says. She smiles softly.

            “Yeah?”

            He nods.

            “David handles the turkey—he gets weirdly male about it, and has his special turkey cutting knife—it’s a whole big thing, you’ll see—and Mary Margaret makes the stuffing and creamed corn, and Henry and I make the mashed potatoes. Ruby usually comes over around dessert with a pie from Granny’s. Mary Margaret’s cousin Regina comes over, too. She brings apple pie or apple fritters or something with apples,” she explains. “Sometimes we play board games or watch Christmas movies.”

            (It sounds perfect.)

            “Should I bring anything?” he asks. She smiles.

            “I’ll ask Mary Margaret.”

            They spend the rest of the meal talking about inconsequential things (Emma makes no mention of her upcoming birthday), and when they part ways (another hug, a kiss that was meant to only be a peck but becomes a bit more, there in the parking lot) he’s hit with the sudden realization that, in a few weeks time, it will be “see you at home” and not “see you later.”

            And he still hasn’t said the words (they burn in his chest, remain stuck on the tip of his tongue), and he wants to, but—

            He’s waiting for the right moment.

            And, admittedly, some part of him is still afraid of scaring her off. Thinks that perhaps it’s too soon, that he should hold off a while longer, that he should wait until she might be ready to return them.

            (Because he knows she wouldn’t say it back if she didn’t mean it, didn’t also feel it, and while he knows that he means something to her, while he knows that she cares about him—love is much _more_. And he’s not sure she’s quite there yet.)

            (And he can be a patient man for her. He can wait. He doesn’t need the words from her yet.)

            (He just wants them.)

            (And he’s afraid that it might send her off running again. They’ve taken several steps forward by now. He’s still half waiting for a step back.)

\---

            Mary Margaret calls him on Wednesday.

            “ _Emma’s birthday is tomorrow. I know she hasn’t told you and I feel like it’s something you should know about,”_ she says by way of greeting.

            “I know. Henry told me.”

            “ _Oh._ ” She pauses. “ _Well. Good._ ” Another pause. “ _Are you going to do anything?_ ”

            “Henry and I are planning something, yes. He calls it Operation Tiger.”

            “ _Need me to run any distractions?_ ”

            “Make sure Emma doesn’t pick Henry up from school early tomorrow.”

            “ _Got it._ ” Another pause. “ _And I hear you’re coming to Thanksgiving dinner._ ”

            “If that’s all right.”

            “ _Of course._ ” She pauses.“ _We’re something of a family, Emma and Henry and David and I. And you’re part of that family now, too._ ”

            (He blinks at the sudden burning behind his eyes.)

            “ _See you Saturday._ ”

            “Yeah, see you Saturday. Is there anything I can do?”

            “ _No, we should be all set._ ”

            “Okay.” He pauses. “And—thank you.”

            “ _Of course. Good night, Killian._ ”

            “Good night.”

\---

            He gets a text from Emma around lunch the next day.

            _Can you pick Henry up today? Mary Margaret needs my help this afternoon._

            He grins.

            _Of course. We’ll meet you at your place. Let me know when you get there._

_Okay, thanks._

\---

            Henry’s all smiles when Killian picks him up that afternoon (he makes sure he’s there at exactly 2:45—a few minutes early even—and he doesn’t miss the way the boy’s eyes search for him amongst the crowd of parents waiting at the gate, the way he lights up when he sees him—)

            (And will that ever _not_ make his heart swell?)

            “Hi, Killian!”

            “Hello, lad,” he says with a grin. “Ready to go?”

            Henry nods.

            “Mary Margaret’s distracting your mum, so I told her we’d meet her at your house, but I was thinking we could surprise her there. What do you say?”

            “Yeah! I have a key, too, so we can get in.”

            “Excellent. So, to Target?”

            Henry nods, and starts telling him about school—the upcoming state project, the video they watched in science on photosynthesis (“There was this song and I can’t get it out of my head now”)—as they drive.

            At Target they make a beeline for the cards, Henry immediately picking them up to look at and evaluate, Killian at first just watching him, and then struggling to find his own card to give Emma.

            The struggle, of course, comes from the fact that they have no label on this thing between them. Dating—they’re dating, yes—but boyfriend/girlfriend? It seems like such a small word, to encompass what they are to each other.

            And yet she isn’t his wife, either, so those cards are out.

            A funny card would be going the easy route, he thinks.

            But the sentimental ones are sometimes a bit _too_ much.

            “Killian?”

            “Aye, lad?”

            He glances over at Henry, finds him holding a card with a yellow envelope, a soft smile that reminds him of Emma on his face.

            “Need help?”

            Killian nods.

            It’s a _birthday card_. And yet—

            (He doesn’t want to mess this up.)

            “You could get her a blank card. Write whatever you want inside,” Henry tells him.

            He _could_ do that.

            “Mom will like whatever card you give her, because she likes you.”

            He glances at the blank cards.

            Decides on the one with the ducks.

            “I have another idea, lad,” he says, steering Henry away from the greeting cards. “What if we made your mum dinner, too?”

\---

            He tasks Henry with frosting the cake while he sets the table (buttercups in a vase, a single red rose he’s planning on giving her with his card), and it’s as this is happening that they hear a key in the lock.

            They freeze, Henry’s eyes meeting his.

            _What do we do?_ Henry mouths.

            Killian shrugs, setting down the fork as quietly as possible. Henry follows suit, setting down the frosting covered spatula in his hand. The door opens and they hear Emma walk in, set down her keys.

            They left the lights on in the living room.

            And Henry’s backpack is by the door.

            “Hello?” she calls.

            Henry looks at Killian again.

            “In the kitchen,” he answers. Henry jumps into task mode, grabbing his card and gift (a square box he wrapped himself, he’d told Killian proudly). Killian is suddenly very nervous about this. What if she doesn’t want to be surprised? What if she has a reason she doesn’t like celebrating? What if he’s unintentionally walked into a minefield, and she hates it, and after Henry goes to bed she kicks him out?

            ( _Don’t be an idiot, Jones_ , he tells himself.)

            When she reaches the doorway she stops.

            “What’s this?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in question. She looks to Henry first, then Killian. He smiles, or tries to.

            “Happy birthday, Mom!” Henry exclaims. She tears her eyes from him to look at her son, expression softening. “I didn’t forget, I just wanted to surprise you.” He rushes over to her, then, gives her a big hug (or as much as he can, given her belly).

            “You guys planned all this?”

            Henry nods.

            “We called it, Operation Tiger. We made dinner _and_ cake. And this is for you,” he adds, giving her his gift and card. She takes it carefully.

            “Want me to open it now, or later?”

            “Now.”

            She smiles again and carefully unwraps the box, pulling out a soft green scarf.

            “Do you like it?”

            “I love it, kid,” she says. She holds up the card. “Can I open this now, too?”

            Henry nods.

            She pulls the card out, reads it, pulls Henry in for another hug.

            “Love you, kid,” she says into his hair.

            “Love you, too, Mom.” 

            She meets Killian’s eyes, then.

            “Henry, can you go put this in my room for me?”

            Henry glances between the two of them.

            “Yeah, sure,” he says, taking the scarf and card from her and leaving the kitchen.

            “You helped him with this?”

            He nods.

            “This isn’t something you guys threw together today, is it?”

            “When I had him Friday—that’s when he told me of his plan. Or, when we hatched this plan.” He smiles again. Holds out the rose for her. “Happy birthday, Emma.”

            She takes a step closer, so he does as well. Offers her the rose, which she takes.

            “I wasn’t planning on telling you it was my birthday, you know,” she says softly, twirling it between her fingers.

            “I figured as much,” he responds with a small smile. “But Henry thought I should know. Mary Margaret, too.”

            “Oh, she was in on Operation Tiger, as well?”

            “Not quite. But she helped with keeping you distracted today.”

            He puts his hands on her waist and tugs her that last bit closer.

            “There isn’t some terrible moment from your past that has ruined birthdays for you, is there, and that’s why you don’t celebrate?”

            She laughs.

            “No. I just don’t like making a big deal about it.”

            “Well, your son disagrees, and I have to say, so do I.”

            She smiles up at him, and he gives in and kisses her.

            “Happy birthday,” he says again.

            She buries her face in his chest. He wraps his arms around her more fully, smiles to himself. He likes this—the way he gets to touch her now, hold her. How she’ll hug him or seek him out, curl into him. The tension from earlier—the fear that perhaps she’d be upset—is gone, and now he’s just warm and content. He feels her sigh. Then—

            “I love you,” she murmurs, the words warm and soft and pressed against his chest.

            (Over his heart.)

            He freezes, swears his heart stops—or at least skips.

            She—

            “Emma?”

            She pulls back to look at him, and he’s glad because he needs to see her face, needs to _know_ , because—

            Because he loves her, he knows this, has been waiting— _searching_ for the right moment, afraid of scaring her away, afraid that the feelings inside him were too much, too soon—struggling to keep them at bay, to keep the words from bubbling out (the words always at the tip of his tongue these days)—and yet here she is, and she’s given _him_ the words, _she’s_ saying them to _him_.

            She smiles, and it’s a little nervous around the edges.

            “I love you, Killian.”

            And she says it like it’s easy, like it’s _not_ a huge deal (the words or the fact that _she’s_ the one to say them), but he can hear the question, the anxiety underlying them—he can see that for as much as she means them, she’s afraid for his response. Or, lack of one.

            He realizes he’s taking far too long to say anything.

            He smiles at her, brings his hand up to caress her face.

            “I’ll have you know, Emma Swan, that I’ve been waiting _months_ to tell you exactly that. But I was worried that you, perhaps, didn’t feel the same.”

            She looks down, playing with the buttons on his shirt, smile tugging at the corner of her lips, all traces of former tension gone.

            “Whatever gave you that idea?” she asks. His smile widens. (His heart is on _fire_ , he’s not sure he could stop smiling if he tried.)

            “I love you, Emma,” he says after a moment, waiting until she looks back up at him, sure to hold her gaze as he says it. “I’m _in love_ with you, and I’m yours, for as long as you’ll have me.”

            She smiles at him again.

            “Good.”

            Then she leans in and kisses him, and he tightens his hold on her, pulling her as close as possible (a bit difficult with her belly, _their child_ between them), and it rises up more fully in him, everything he feels for her, so much he might burst—love and affection and protectiveness—and, yes, lust— _everything_ —and normally when this happens he tries to tamp it down, tries to keep it from escaping because it’s always felt like too much—like he’s too much, like she couldn’t possibly want or be ready to know the depth of what he feels, how far gone and how invested he is, but _she loves him_ , _she said it_ — _first_ —she opened herself up to him and he may have hoped, may have thought maybe, perhaps she did— _wanted_ her to—but there’s no guessing here, not anymore. She loves him.

            _She loves him_.

            So he doesn’t try to push it back down, he lets himself kiss her and he lets all of it flood into his kiss, and his heart—which he didn’t think could take much more—is exploding because she’s kissing him back with much the same feeling, the same warmth, the same love—

            “Can I come back now?”

            They spring apart, as if suddenly remembering where they are (her kitchen) and why (it’s her birthday)—and also the fact that her son is, apparently, waiting for them to finish having their moment out in the hallway.

            Her cheeks are flushed and a surge of pride bubbles up in him and when she looks at him she rolls her eyes.

            “Shut up,” she says, but she’s smiling (and still red—looking properly kissed and _loved_ ) (he loves her—she loves him—it is _everything_ ).

            He just grins.

            “Yeah, kid, you can come back.”

            Henry walks in, looks between the two of them, smirks. It’s Killian’s turn to blush now. 

            “Let’s eat, then, shall we?” he suggests. Emma nods, and Henry goes to finish setting the table.

\---

            (They eat, and sing happy birthday—and Henry insists on taking pictures with Emma’s phone, sends them to Killian, too.)

\---

            (He doesn’t check them until he gets home later that night, but when he does—)

            (He makes the one of the three of them—“It’s called a selfie, Killian, how _old_ are you?” Henry had said as he’d held the phone out and ordered them to get closer and smile—his phone background.)


	19. Chapter 19

**nineteen.**

            She asked him to stay.

            And it’s not the first time, but it almost is, because Henry’s here. Any other time he’s stayed the night, Henry’s been with Neal, or at a friend’s. This is new territory, and she knew that—but she’d wanted him to stay. And he was coming back in the morning anyway, and—

            Mostly, she just likes waking up with him, likes falling asleep with him, likes being around him, and it’s only been a few times, and in a few weeks he’ll be moving in (and it’s terrifying and exciting) and she—well, she almost doesn’t really want to wait. So she’d asked, and he’d agreed, and here they are, curled up in her bed, his hand on her belly, a sleepy smile on his face.

            “Goodnight, Swan.”

            “Goodnight, Killian.”

\---

            When she wakes up he’s gone, and there’s a pang like disappointment that goes through her, and—and it makes sense, if he woke up early and left. Maybe he did it for Henry’s sake, maybe he just—

            She drags herself out of bed (pregnancy is a bitch, she forgot that part, and she sincerely hopes this kid doesn’t decide to take his time arriving) and as she opens the door and goes into the hall she hears Henry laugh from the kitchen, smells pancakes.

            When she reaches the kitchen she finds Henry and Killian—Henry getting plates, Killian pouring what must be hot chocolate—both of them with crazy sleep mussed hair.

            It’s Henry who notices her first.

            “Mom! We made breakfast!”

She smiles.

“I can see that.”

Henry sits down at the table but she walks over to Killian, takes the cup he offers her.

“Morning, love,” he says quietly.

“Morning.”

She kisses him, takes another cup for Henry, and joins her son at the table. Killian follows a moment later, shooting her a smile over his mug.

“So how are the pancakes? Henry made them,” he says. Henry preens beside him and she warms, at the way he’s smiling at her and the way he glances at Henry, and smiles at him, too.

“The best. Way better than yours,” she teases.

He raises an eyebrow at her but she just smirks at him.

“But, Killian’s never made us pancakes before.”

(Now it’s Killian’s turn to smirk.)

\---

            “So, does Killian have anything special planned for your birthday?”

            Emma shrugs.

            “I doubt it.”

            Ruby rolls her eyes.

            “Please, I’m sure he’s got _something_ —”

            “He doesn’t know it’s my birthday.”

            “What?”

            “I haven’t told him.”

            “ _Why?_ ”

            She shrugs again.

            “It hasn’t come up.”

            “Emma, you have to _tell_ him.”

            “Why? It’s just a day, it’s not a big deal.”

            Mary Margaret gives her a hard look.

            “It is a big deal. What if he never told you his birthday—that’s something you’d want to know.”

            Emma waves her off.

            “Yeah, but I already know his birthday.”

            Ruby raises an eyebrow.

            “There are a lot of forms, I knew his birthday before I knew most other things about him.”

            “Except _some_ things—”

            “Shut up. The point is, it’s not a big deal, and it’s tomorrow, so it’s—it’s fine. I’ll see him on Saturday, and—”

            “I think you should tell him,” Mary Margaret says. “Are you doing anything to celebrate? With Henry, maybe?”

            “I dunno. I think he forgot,” she tells them. (And it’s a little strange, maybe, but he’s only ten, and it’s not like she’s ever really made a big deal about it before.) “He hasn’t said anything. Maybe we’ll just get dinner.”

            “You should invite Killian to that dinner.”

            Emma rolls her eyes.

            “Yeah, okay.”

\---

            (She doesn’t she tell him. Or say anything to Henry. She _thinks_ about it, briefly. But it’s just—it’s just a day, it’s not a big deal, it’s—

            It’s nothing.)

\---

            Henry doesn’t wish her a happy birthday. It’s more upsetting than it should be, probably, that he forgot, but he _is_ getting older (the thought makes her heart ache) and she _didn’t_ say anything, so it’s to be expected, she supposes.

            She drops him off at school and he gives her a hug (she’s probably imagining the mischievous glint in his eyes) and tells her he loves her before running off through the gate, and it’s just another day. Which is exactly what she wanted.

            (Right?)

\---

            “ _Hey, Em. Happy birthday. It’s today, right? Well, uh, hope you have a good day. Try not to go too crazy. I’ll pick Henry up for dinner next week, I dunno. I’ll call you. See ya._ ”

\---

            Part of her wants to protest when Mary Margaret calls to ask that she come over after work to help her pick out decorations for Saturday. But she has no plans (which is her own fault) so she agrees, and asks Killian to get Henry from school.

            (At the very least she’ll get to see him now, and she suddenly really wants to see him today. Even if he doesn’t know it’s her birthday.)  

            And Mary Margaret drags her through Babies’R’Us to pick out decorations and paper plates and whatever, talking about who’s coming and what kind of food they’re going to have. Emma listens, mostly, but she gets a little distracted by the baby clothes and blankets, the reality that this kid will be here _soon_ —and they don’t even have a name for him yet.

            “Where’s Henry?” Mary Margaret asks mildly.

            “With Killian. I’m gonna meet up with them after this.”

            She nods.

            “Henry seems to like him.”

            “Yeah,” she says with a smile. “Killian’s good with him.”

            They’ve already picked out the plates and cups (blue and green with sailboats) and now they’re just browsing. Emma lingers on a pair of onesies ( _Little Bro_ and _Handsome Like Daddy_ ), so lost in thought she doesn’t even hear Mary Margaret’s question.

            “Emma?”

            “Sorry, what?”

            Mary Margaret smiles.

            “What do you think he’s going to look like?” she repeats.

            Emma pauses. She’s thought about it, a little, but she still can’t decide.

            “I don’t know. He’ll probably have dark hair, like Killian, though.”

            “You think?”

            “Yeah.” She shrugs. “But beyond that, who knows.”

            “It’s getting closer.”

            “Yeah.”

            She can’t help the smile, even with the way her insides are twisting in something like anticipation and anxiety. She’s much better prepared this time around—has actual support—is _ready_ in a way she wasn’t before—but the same fears from last time linger.

            “It’s gonna be good,” Mary Margaret tells her with a reassuring smile.

            Emma nods.

\---

            (On their way out she sees a little leather jacket that reminds her of Killian’s, with a skull and crossbones on the back. It takes everything in her not to get it right then and there.)

\---

            (The whole way home she thinks about the baby, imagines him with dark hair and Killian’s eyes, and she knows she’ll be going back for that damn jacket this weekend.)

\---

            (She very nearly stops and gets herself a cupcake—if nothing else, she wants some sort of sweet on her birthday, since she’s otherwise decided not to celebrate it—but she doesn’t. Maybe they can get ice cream or something later.

            It gnaws at her, though. Feels like _before_.

            Maybe they were right. Maybe she should’ve told Killian.)

\---

            When she gets home she notices two things: the lights are on, and Henry’s backpack is by the door. And she could’ve sworn that she told Killian she’d call him once she got home, but it would seem that he’s already here with Henry.

            (Because she can’t imagine he would’ve just dropped Henry off, so he must be here, too.)

            “Hello?”

            “In the kitchen,” she hears Killian call back.

            When she reaches it she stops.

            There are flowers on the table, and a cake (a _cake_ ), and Killian’s watching her with a nervous expression and Henry’s bursting to wish her a happy birthday, hugging her and handing her a gift and telling her that they made dinner _and_ a cake ( _Operation Tiger_ , she could cry) and Killian’s still watching her carefully but she ignores his gaze as she focuses on Henry (who didn’t forget, who planned the this whole thing, who wanted to _surprise_ her, who gives her a birthday card that makes her want to cry—seriously, how did she luck out with this sweet kid of hers?).

            She sends Henry to put the scarf he gave her away (he nods knowingly and goes), leaving her alone with Killian.

            Who, apparently, has been working on this surprise for a _week_ with her kid.

            (He tells her happy birthday and offers her a single rose and her heart stutters even as she sways closer to him, and it shouldn’t mean so much, probably—it’s just a day, and it’s just a flower—but somehow it’s _everything_.)

            “I wasn’t planning on telling you it was my birthday, you know,” she admits, avoiding his gaze.

            “I figured as much,” he says softly. “But Henry thought I should know. Mary Margaret, too.”

            _Of course_.

            “Oh, she was in on Operation Tiger, as well?” she says, looking up at him. He grins.

            “Not quite. But she helped with keeping you distracted today.”

            (She wonders if they even _needed_ those plates and napkins. Knowing Mary Margaret she would’ve expected her to pick that stuff up _weeks_ ago.)

            He reaches for her and puts his hands on her waist, tugs her toward him. His expression softens as he looks at her.

            “There isn’t some terrible moment from your past that has ruined birthdays for you, is there, and that’s why you don’t celebrate?” he asks then, eyes searching hers.

            She laughs.

            (She loves him.)

            “No. I just don’t like making a big deal about it.”

            (She went her whole life not celebrating birthdays, not really. Sometimes her foster homes wouldn’t even _know_ , and it would pass like any other day. Sometimes at the group home they’d give her a cupcake with a candle, or a cookie—an extra dessert to mark the occasion, and she’d sneak it up to her room or go outside with it, pretend it was just _one_ celebration, pretend there was a big party planned for her. There never was, but she’d hold on to whatever cupcake or cookie or candy and savor it, because it was _hers_ , and sometimes it was nice to be remembered. But she never had a birthday party, and as she got older she told herself she didn’t need one, or want one. It was just another day—had always been just another day. But maybe she’d let herself have a piece of pie, or something. Just a reminder to herself.)

            “Well, your son disagrees, and I have to say, so do I,” Killian tells her. It makes her breath catch.  

            (She _loves_ him.)

            He kisses her sweetly, softly, like she’s precious to him, like she’s important, like it _matters_ that it’s her birthday, and she can barely handle all the emotions coursing through her.  

            “Happy birthday,” he says again as he pulls away.

            She buries her face in his chest, trying to catch her breath and calm herself. He wraps his arms around her more fully, pressing her more firmly into him, and she sighs. She loves hugging him like this, being held by him like this. She likes how she can feel his heartbeat against her cheek, the solid warmth of him, his hands running soothing circles across her back and his lips pressing a soft kiss to her hair, how utterly safe and _loved_ she feels. She sighs again, unable to keep the words from spilling out.

            “I love you,” she mumbles against his chest, and as soon as the words are out she squeezes her eyes shut because even if they’re true, and even if she knows there’s a pretty good chance he feels the same way, it’s still terrifying to actually _say_ it, actually admit it out loud to him.

            But she does, she loves him, and she wants him to know that because he’s one of the best things that’s happened to her and she used to think that good things would never happen to her, and then, later, that she’d reached the threshold for them—like there was only so much that she could have, and she had Henry and then she had friends but that was it, she wouldn’t get anymore than that. But then he showed up with his stupid smirk and stupid leather jacket and the way he’d lean in close to talk to her and the way he helped her with her coat and opened doors for her, the way he fiddled with the coffeemaker and hesitated when she kissed him and wanted to make _sure_ —

            (The way he programmed his number into her phone and hoped she’d call, the way he never pushed her but always showed up when she asked—the way he’s been here—)

            And she may not be sure on a lot of things, but she’s sure about this. She loves him. And it was scary for a long time—because she thinks she knew she _could_ , knew that’s where things would go, right from the beginning—but it’s not anymore. And she thinks he should know how much he means to her, because he does—he means _so much_.

            “Emma?”

            She pulls back slightly to look at him—sees the question in his eyes, and it hurts to know she put it there, that he’s _confused_ , almost, that she’s said it, and in that moment he’s every bit of the lost little boy she knows he was, and _God_ , she loves him, wants to wipe away that expression and take care of him like he takes care of her. So she smiles at him, and it’s still scary to say the words but she _wants_ to, she wants to say it, she wants to tell him—wants _him_.

            So she tells him again.

\---

            (Turns out he loves her, too.)

\---

            _This kid’s gonna be here soon._

_Really? I hadn’t realized._

_He still needs a name._

_I know. If you weren’t so stubborn we’d have picked one by now._

_Says the man who vetoed Zachary because of the way it’s spelled._

_Spelling is important, Swan._

_You know everyone’s gonna ask._

_We still have a few weeks. I’m picking you and Henry up, right?_

_Yeah. We’ll talk about it more then._

_Okay._

A few seconds later her phone buzzes with another text.

            _Love you._

            She smiles, warm and happy and wishing she was seeing him sooner than tomorrow.

            _Love you, too. See you tomorrow._

\---

            And it’s strange, this party/baby shower thing, the way Mary Margaret tears up when they arrive (even though literally nothing has changed in the 48 hours since they’ve seen each other), hugging her tight and making _Emma_ want to cry, too, for some inexplicable reason. Killian’s as bright and happy as she’s ever seen him, saying hello to David and Graham and Robin, introducing Henry to his friend Jefferson and _his_ daughter, Grace—introducing Tink to everyone once she arrives.

            (Tink gets teary, too, when she hugs her, and Emma makes a note to not let her drift out of Killian’s life again.)

            There are no games, as requested, but there’s food and laughter and Henry breaks out Battleship to play with Grace, which leads to Killian and David playing Battleship (and of course they get all competitive and ridiculous about it), and every so often Killian will glance at her from across the room and smile and it makes her heart flutter _every time_ and she wonders if this is how it will always be—this joy, this warmth, this feeling of security with him.

            She’s so busy just watching them, all these people—her people—Killian and David and Mary Margaret and Ruby and Victor, Tink and Robin and Jefferson and Smee (Henry giggled and asked if that was his _real_ name), Henry and Roland and Grace and—

            “I never got to say congratulations.”

            She turns, then, to face Graham, soft smile pulling at his lips as he comes to stand beside her.

            She smiles, unsure of what to say, exactly.

            “You seem happier,” he comments after a moment.  

            “I am,” she says softly.

            Killian lets out a cheer—apparently he sank one of David’s ships—and when he meets her gaze his eyes are sparkling with boyish mirth and she _loves_ him, so much it aches.

            She watches as his eyes flit from her to Graham and back, a slight question there, and she smiles softly at him. He nods slightly and then goes back to the game.

            She turns back to Graham, and it all hits her—the way it _could’ve_ been. If she’d said yes to that date, if she hadn’t run away and avoided him when he kissed her, if she’d just _let_ herself—

            That this could’ve been _his_ baby, that he could’ve been the one planning surprise birthday parties with her son—

            That she could’ve loved him.

(He would’ve been good for her, she thinks. Knows. The timing was off. A few years later and it would’ve—

            But she wasn’t ready, then—not that she was all that ready when this thing with Killian started, but—

And she knows, somehow, that even if she’d let herself fall, it wouldn’t have worked out, not with Graham.

            And as sad and it makes her, standing next to him and feeling the weight of how it could’ve or might’ve been—she wouldn’t change it.)

            (He smiles like the same thought’s crossed his mind, too.)

            “Picked out a name yet?” he asks, breaking eye contact and focusing on the Battleship match in the living room.

            (They’re children, Killian and David.)

            She groans.

            “No. Still working on it.”

            He grins.

            “I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’ve got, what, 3 days left?”

            She hits him on the shoulder and he laughs.

\---

            Mary Margaret insists that they open presents there, at the party (“It’s how things are done at baby showers!”) so they all gather in the living room, Mary Margaret armed with a trash bag and a notebook (“To write down what gifts people gave—for the thank you cards,” she explains), Henry asking if he can be the one to open everything.

            Since it’s common knowledge that they’re having a boy, there are a few outfits and onesies, sports and dinosaurs and rocket ships—a little knit cap that makes Emma’s heart clench. Bottles and pacifiers and bibs. Mary Margaret and David went in with Ruby and Victor for the crib, and Tink gets them the car seat.

            The men help Killian take everything to the car while Emma attempts to help clean up (Ruby shoos her away), and Henry asks if he can spend the night with Mary Margaret and David. (Emma suspects one of them may have planted the idea in his head.)

            Regardless, after everyone’s left, after being assured that it’s no problem, of course Henry can stay, they’ll go to the movies or do something else fun, Emma and Killian say goodbye and make their way to his car. He gives her a quick kiss as he opens her door for her, eyes bright and happy as he smiles.

            “Too bad we don’t have the keys for the new place yet,” he says. “We could just drop everything off there.”

            “Yeah. Next weekend, though.”

            He smiles at her again before turning back to the road.

            “I’ll take everything upstairs for you, and then—”

            “Then we can talk names.”

\---

            They order pizza (because they’re tired and it’s cold and neither of them want to leave the apartment again—and, honestly, Emma doesn’t want _him_ to leave, either) and go through the gifts they got—looking at the outfits again, refolding them and putting them with the other things they’ve accumulated (all in a plastic bin in the corner of the living room, with a piece of duct tape across the front, _baby stuff_ written in sharpie on it).

            It’s not much of a date night (she knows that’s what Mary Margaret was going for—knows she was probably behind getting Henry to stay with them) but it’s nice, getting to spend time with Killian. They see each other as much as they can, but everything’s been so busy lately—and it’s only going to get worse—and, it’s different when Henry’s around. So he orders a pizza and they put on a movie and she lets herself relax against him. It all starts catching up with her, the whole day, and she yawns, feeling herself start to drift off.

            “Suppose we’ll have to go back. Get more things,” he says.

            “Probably.”

            “I’ll make a list.”

            _Of course he will._

            She’s still got the little beanie on her lap, and if he’s noticed (and he probably has) he hasn’t commented on it.

            Hopefully it doesn’t snow when he’s born. Or when they take him home. It’ll be cold enough as it is; he’ll need lots of beanies and socks and a little coat, too, to keep him warm.

            (And everything’s so _small_ , it’s been so long since she’s had a baby—and she feels, sometimes, like she barely even got to enjoy it with Henry. She was so worried about other things—like making rent, and paying for day care, and finding cheap diapers and formula—scouring the Goodwill for clothes in his size—it’s nice that she doesn’t have to worry quite as much this time, but it makes her ache, too. How different things are. How different this baby’s life will be compared to Henry’s.)

            (She only ever wanted the best for him—wanted to give him _everything_ —but that means more now. She can give this baby more than she could give him, and it’s almost entirely due to timing.)

            (She’s afraid Henry will feel like he got the short end of the stick.)

            “What are you thinking about, Swan?” Killian asks softly. She sighs, running her thumb across the beanie again.

            “Just—this is what I wanted for Henry, too.”

            Killian doesn’t say anything, just tightens his grip on her.

            “Henry knows you love him. And while _you_ may remember everything a certain way, you have to think of it from his perspective, too. All he’s ever known is a loving home—the one _you’ve_ given him. Whatever build up there was to his birth, whatever it may have been like just after, since he got here you’ve done nothing but take care of him and fight to give him the best you could. And he knows that. The details may be different, but that much hasn’t changed.”

            She nods, trying (and failing) to blink back tears. He presses a kiss to her hair.

            “It’s all right,” he soothes, and there, in the safety of his embrace, she lets herself cry. Just one more time.

\---

            (He asks her if he should go, a few hours later, and she just rolls her eyes at him, taking his hand and leading him down the hall to her bedroom.)

\---

            “So, I think we just go through the whole book. Starting with A. Just—until we find something.”

            “We have our list of possibilities,” she reminds him.

            “But the fact that it’s _just_ possibilities—it means they’re names we like but don’t feel strongly about. So I think we need to start from scratch.”

            “From A.”

            “Yes.”

            “You’re not worried we’ll pick something at random in the E’s out of sheer boredom?”

            “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now,” and he reaches over to the book on the nightstand, settling on his back and breaking it open. “Aaron.”

            “Okay, you don’t have to _read_ every name out load. We can both just look, and—”

            “Is that a no on Aaron?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Okay.”

            She skims the page quickly—and they’ve done this, this is hardly the first time they’ve looked through this book, and—

            And then her eyes fall on a name they must’ve missed.

            “Aidan?”

            She points it out on the page, turning the name over again in her mind. _Aidan._ _Aidan Swan Jones. Aidan Jones._

Aidan.

            It feels right, somehow, and she hasn’t felt this strongly about any of the names they’ve considered, and it’s on the _first page_ , how did they miss this?

            “It’s a Gaelic name,” he says.

            “Yeah. Like yours.”

            He nods.

            “Little fiery one,” he reads.

            “Do you like it?”

            (She hopes he does, because she does, she likes it a lot.)

            He nods, and she smiles.

            “Yeah. Aidan Swan Jones,” he says slowly, like he’s testing it out, and she likes how it sounds out loud, too. He closes the book.

            _They have a first name_.

            She thinks of the conversation they had weeks ago, and maybe it’s not the right time to bring it up, but—

            “He needs a middle name, too,” she says carefully. “Did you—do you want to use your brother’s name?”

He sucks in a breath, eyes trained up at the ceiling. Releases it a few moments later.

            “Do you want to?” he asks softly.

            “If you do.”

            He nods to himself, and she can tell he’s thinking about it.

            And she gets his hesitation—she does.

            But she also—she doesn’t want him to regret it, if they don’t. It’s maybe not much, in the grand scheme of things, to name your son after your brother—in memory of him—but she knows that he meant a lot of Killian, and she thinks—she wants him to do this, if that’s what he wants. And if he doesn’t, she won’t push him. But she gets the feeling that it’s important to him, to remember this brother. And she wants him to always remember the things that made him happy—the brightest parts of his life.

            “Aidan Liam,” he says gently, experimentally. She smiles.  

            “I like it,” she tells him. He nods as he turns to look at her.

            “Me, too.”

            “So, we have a name?”

            He grins.

            “ _He_ has a name,” he corrects.

            “Aidan.”

            “Aidan.”

\---

            “What do you think he’ll look like?”

            He turns on his side to face her.

            “Dunno. What do you think?”

            “I think he’ll have your eyes.”

            “Think or want?” he teases.

            “And probably dark hair, too,” she continues, ignoring him.

            “Not necessarily,” he says.

            “Henry has dark hair like Neal, though, so the baby—”

            “Liam had light hair, though. Not as light as yours, but—” He shrugs. “It’s possible Aidan might take after you.”

            She hadn’t thought about that. Never thought to ask—

            It’s strange to think about. She’s spent most of her pregnancy assuming that the baby— _Aidan_ —will look like Killian. She knows that blonde hair is recessive; knows it’s more likely for their son to inherit his dark hair. She doesn’t know about eye color but Henry has brown eyes like Neal, and Killian’s eyes are so damned blue she imagines the genes must be strong. (And, honestly, she just _wants_ the baby to have his eyes.)

            (Not that she would ever admit that to him.)

            But it hasn’t even occurred to her, really, that he might have light hair like her. That she could have a child who would take after her more.

            It was so hard, at the beginning, with Henry, because he took after Neal so much. She couldn’t look at him and not see his father, and she knows that might’ve been true regardless of what he looked like, it always stung that extra bit, seeing Neal’s eyes whenever her son smiled at her—being told “he must take after his father.” She never _wanted_ Henry to take after his father. With genetics, she supposes it’s a moot point now. But so much of how she’s raised him—is raising him—is centered on _I don’t want him to be like Neal_.

            This time—this time she’s thinking about it, and this time she’s assuming that the baby will look like Killian, and this time she doesn’t mind that so much. This time she _does_ want her son to take after his father, in more ways than one.

            And he’d protest it, she’s sure, but he’s a good man. An honorable man. Whatever mistakes he’s made—the man he is now, the man he is with her and with her son—that’s exactly the kind of man she wants her boys to be.

            ( _Her boys_.)

            (Sometimes she realizes it still hasn’t sunk in yet. She won’t just have _a_ son. She will have _sons. Children. Boys._ )

            “Do you have any pictures?” she asks softly.

            (Neal hadn’t. He wasn’t in contact with his parents, didn’t hold onto any photographs of them, and never mentioned them—much less what color eyes they had.)

            “A few,” Killian tells her.

            “What about from when you were little? Or of your mom?”

            He shakes his head.

            “Whatever my mother may have had—my aunt would’ve had it, and since she’s died, I’m not sure—I never thought to ask about any of that,” he admits.

            (She’ll have to ask Tink later.)

            “What did she look like? Your mother.”

            “She had blonde hair,” he tells her, taking a strand of hers between his fingers. “And blue eyes. My father had dark eyes and dark hair. Everything about him was dark—like he had this shadow over him. Hat drawn down low over his eyes, dark clothes—but she was light. Light hair, light eyes, light dresses. And she made him smile. I don’t remember much about him, but I remember that. Liam took more after our mother than I did; Aunt Fae said I was all our father. Him to a tee. She was never fond of me, and I assume that was why.”

            She reaches out and brushes the hair off his forehead, frowning.

            “You were just a little boy. You didn’t deserve that.”

            He shrugs, and her chest tightens thinking of him like that, treated poorly by someone who should’ve loved him and taken care of him for something that wasn’t even his fault. (That probably hurt anyway, that he didn’t understand.)

            “I hope Aidan looks like you,” she tells him. And he looks surprised.  

            “Yeah?”

            She nods.

            And she hopes he gets it, understands what she’s trying to tell him—that it wasn’t his fault, that he isn’t his father, that she trusts that he won’t leave like he did—that she doesn’t anticipate a future where she sees him when she looks at their son and feels anger or pain.

            He smiles softly, then leans in and kisses her.

            (He understood.)

            “For the record,” he says after he’s pulled away, wrapping his arm around her and bringing her as close to him as possible with her belly, “I hope he at least has your eyes.”

            It’s at the tip of her tongue, a comment about how they can always try for that next time, but that’s a dangerous thought (and not one she’d seen coming) that she doesn’t need to share yet—if ever—so she says nothing, just buries her face in his chest and basks in the solid warmth of him.

            (But it’s suddenly all she can think about—him and her and _this_ and the future—and being together and having _another_ —a _planned_ baby—a _family_ with him, more than this spontaneous thing they’ve scrapped together and started to build.)

            (She finds she’s not as opposed to the idea as she would’ve thought.)

\---

            David brings Henry by the next day, doesn’t even bat an eye at Killian’s presence (he’d at least gone by his apartment to pick up a change of clothes), and it’s not until after he leaves that they tell Henry the name.

            (They decided that they won’t tell anyone other than Henry, unless asked. She and Killian have agreed that they wouldn’t mind telling people, but they don’t want to turn it into some big announcement. They’ll all find out when he’s born, anyway. But Henry’s different, and Henry they decide to tell.)

            Henry likes it—and immediately asks how they’ll spell it.

            They hadn’t talked about that—in the book she saw it first as ‘Aidan,’ but she _also_ saw a spelling with an ‘en’ instead of ‘an.’

            “Why do you ask, kid?”

            “So we can put it on the boxes, so we put his stuff in the right room,” Henry tells them, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

\---

            (She may or may not tear up at the sight of the first box with _AIDAN_ written across it in black sharpie.) 


	20. Chapter 20

**twenty.**

            Tink cries when he tells her the name.

            (She cried at the baby shower, too, though, so apparently being around pregnant women just makes her weepy.)

            “It’s really real,” she tells him, as if that’s supposed to be an explanation.

            But he gets it a bit, too.

            They’ve known for months. Emma’s been showing for a while—he’s heard the heartbeat, felt him kick—there are ultrasound pictures on the fridge—and yet nothing has been quite as real as this.

            He’s having a son, and his son has a name.

            _Aidan_.

            (Tink hugs him, then, and not for the first time, he’s glad she’s around for this.)

\---

            He gets to Emma’s apartment early Thanksgiving morning. They’re not going over to David and Mary Margaret’s until noon, but he wants to spend time with them.

            Henry’s the one who opens the door, telling him that Emma’s making the potatoes still and does he want hot chocolate? And doesn’t he think they need to get their Christmas tree right away?

            Emma looks a little frazzled when he reaches the kitchen, leaning into him and meeting him for a kiss as he comes up behind her.

            “Henry’s trying to convince me we should get our Christmas tree this weekend.”

            “But you’re moving this weekend.”

            “See?” she says to Henry, who rolls his eyes.

            “Okay, _fine_ , not this weekend—but we can’t wait too long because then all the good trees will be gone, like last year—”

            Emma sighs deeply and Killian assumes there’s a story there.

            “—and we have to get it before you get too tired or whatever to do anything,” Henry finishes.

            “We’ll get a Christmas tree—the best one—and I promise I won’t be too tired to decorate it with you, but we have to move and settle in a little bit first, okay?” Emma says.

            Henry sighs.

            “ _Okay_.”

            Henry wanders off to his room, leaving Killian with Emma. He pulls her in for a proper hug and kisses her again.

            “Hi.”

            “Hi,” she says, smiling. “Hot chocolate?”

            He nods and she steps away, gets him a mug and pours him some, adding cinnamon without even asking. (It’s good, and he likes it, but it makes him smile, how automatic it is for her to add cinnamon to hot chocolate. He thinks he’d probably have to learn to like it if he didn’t already.)

            “You look nice,” she tells him.

            “So do you,” he says, making a show of looking her up and down. She’s still in her pajamas, very pregnant and very adorable and he really _does_ think she’s as beautiful as he’s ever seen her, but she rolls her eyes at him.

            “Shut up. I’m gonna change before we go.”

            “Of course.”

            She moves past him to get something from the fridge but he grabs her arm and pulls her in for another hug, burying his face in her neck.

            “I missed you,” he says.

            She laughs softly and brings her hand up to cradle his head, fingers threading through his hair.

            “It’s been two days,” she tells him.

            “Still.”

            She presses a kiss to the side of his head.

            “I missed you, too,” she admits, and he grins against her shoulder.

            (Soon—soon he’ll see her every day—come home to her—have dinner every night, curl up on the couch, wake up beside her—)

            She moves away and this time he lets her go, picking up his hot chocolate and taking a sip.

            “Happy Thanksgiving, by the way,” she tells him over her shoulder.

            (This time last year he was—he honestly doesn’t even remember. This time last year he was probably drunk, full of anger and sadness and trying to drown it in rum, barely hanging onto his job and sharing an apartment with one of Peter’s immature friends. The time last year he gave no thanks, felt no gratitude, just wanted to block out the pain and ignore all the happiness of the season swirling around him, and largely he was successful.)

            (This time last year he was alone.)

            He smiles, heart too full of things he can’t express clearly enough in this moment, and feels the weight of the past year settle on his chest.

            “Happy Thanksgiving.”

\---

            (Mary Margaret fusses over Emma and her cousin Regina, who seems displeased by most, if not all things, wishes them a congratulations that is probably more sincere than it sounds, and David lets him know that he can cut the ham, and Robin, who was a last minute invite, spends most of the afternoon trying to get Regina to smile, and Killian can see the wheels in Mary Margaret’s head turning already.)

            (Henry announces that he’s thankful for family and Roland announces that he’s thankful for ice cream, and Killian whispers into Emma’s ear that he’s thankful for _this_.)

            (He’s normally more articulate than that, usually much better with his words, but somehow they’ve failed him today—but, given the way she looks at him, the soft smile she sends him and the way her hand finds his under the table and laces their fingers—he thinks she gets it just the same.)

\---

            They stay at David and Mary Margaret’s late, feasting on apple pie (Regina’s specialty) and then, later, leftovers from dinner, playing games and laughing, a Christmas movie playing in the background.

            Henry falls asleep on the drive back to Emma’s, and Killian carries him upstairs again, tucking him into his bed—the only part of his room not packed—before going to say goodnight to Emma.

            “You should stay,” she says softly.

            “Yeah?”

            She nods.

            “You’ll be back early tomorrow anyway. Might as well just stay.”

            He smiles.

            “Okay.”

            Her room is similarly completely packed, save for her bed and some clothes, and it’s strange, to see it like this. To try to imagine all of these things in the new apartment. To think of how he’ll be temporarily (or not so temporarily) adding some of his own into the mix.

            It’s only once they’ve settled into bed—tucked under the covers and lamp switched off—that he kisses her.

            “I love you.”

            She smiles gently at him, brushing her thumb across his cheek.

            “I love you, too.”

            And it’s hardly the first—or second—time she’s said it, but it sends a thrill through him anyway, just to hear it, just to know that these are words they say now, that these are words that are _his_ , that she loves him and wants him in her life and in her home and in her bed, that she wants him to _know_ —it warms a part of him he hadn’t even realized needed warmth, some hidden dark place he’d forgotten about and left to collect dust—she smiles at him and kisses him and touches him and it’s like a light being turned on, like cobwebs being swept away, like a fire on a rainy day.

            He turns his head to press a kiss to her palm and her eyes soften even more.

            “Hey,” she says, hand moving down to rest on his neck, thumb rubbing soothing circles on his skin. “You okay?”

            He nods, but it’s—he’s not _not_ okay, but he’s certainly not great, either. He’s not sure how to put to words what he’s feeling; all he knows is he needs this, and he’s glad she’d asked him to stay, he needs to be close to her—closer even—needs the contact, the reassurance—the warm softness of her—and he doesn’t even fully understand _why_.

            She senses that something’s off, though, just barely frowning, eyes searching his carefully.

            “What are you thinking about?”

            He shrugs.

            “You, and—”

            She doesn’t press him, doesn’t ask anything, just watches him, waits for him to continue, and it’s that—

            It’s the way she’s just _here_ , wanting to listen and wanting to support him and _knowing_ that something is wrong—

            “Today was a good day. A _great_ day,” he tells her finally. She nods almost imperceptibly.

            _But_ —?

            “I’ve not had a Thanksgiving like this in quite some time. Possibly ever. The last few years—even last year—”

            “It takes some getting used to. I know.”

            And she does.

            _But—_

“It wasn’t that long ago,” he says, averting his gaze.

            He can feel her eyes on him.

            “Killian.”

            “I’m not proud of the man I was, and I’d like to think I’ve changed, but it wasn’t even a year ago that I was—”

            “ _Killian._ ”

            He looks at her, then, heart stuttering in his chest. Because she’s _beautiful_ and she _loves_ him and he’s—he’s found _home_ with her, he’s building a family with her—they’re creating this family, this unit, and he _wants_ it but he’s—

            He’s afraid that the man he was is the man he _is_ , that it’s just lying dormant, those qualities and habits he’s come to despise so—he’s afraid of what could send him back down that path, and, more than anything, he’s afraid that the heart he can offer her is dark and damaged—that it can be of no use to her, or their child—that he will never be able to love her as she loves him because his heart is rotten, even still.

            Because she loves him, has given him her heart—and it is beautiful, and precious, and he knows what a gift it is, would never dream of handling it carelessly—

            But he’s afraid his heart will find her wanting. Because it isn’t enough.

            ( _He_ isn’t enough.)

            (Because last Thanksgiving and the one before he spent in a drunken haze, because he’s been in more bar fights than he’s comfortable with, because he’s lied and cheated and stolen, because—)

            “Killian,” she says a third time, effectively breaking him out of his train of thought.

            “Sorry, love,” he mutters. But he isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. She shakes her head.

            “No, don’t—look, I know you aren’t proud of how you used to be, but,” and she smiles at him, and it warms him just the same, even as his brain tells him he doesn’t deserve her, but she’s _smiling_ at him. “You’re a good man, and you have a good heart.”

            He shakes his head but she presses forward.

            “You _do_. Whatever you were like a year ago—ten months ago, even—that’s not what I see. That’s not who you are _now_. You _have_ changed, Killian.”

            He lets her words wash over him, tries to believe them.

            “It doesn’t matter to me, what you were like last year. What matters to me is _this_ year. And this year you spent Thanksgiving with us.”

            “And that’s it? That’s all it takes?”

            “Of course not.” She runs her thumb across his cheek, gaze tender and open and _God_ , he never imagined he’d have this. Hoped, sure. But to _have_ —

            “You come to the appointments with me. You make me dinner and pick my kid up from school and make sure he has a hat when we go anywhere because it’s cold outside. You hold me and comfort me and hang the ultrasound pictures on your fridge and research car seats. And I was so afraid of letting you in, but you’ve been so—of course I trust you.” She smiles at him again. “I’ve seen the kind of man you are, and I want you to stay. So don’t—beat yourself up or get lost in how it was. Stay right here, with me. This moment.”

            And God but he doesn’t deserve her, but he can’t deny her anything, either.

            “Okay.”

            He kisses her again, hand on her hip pulling her as close as possible.

            “I’m serious, Killian,” she says when they pull away.

            “I know, love.”

            He nudges her nose lightly with his.

            “Thank you,” he murmurs. She doesn’t respond, just kisses him, and he lets himself get lost in it, the feel of her against him, all the love he has for her and the way she feels for him (she loves him, _she loves him_ ), lets it wash over him, and when he pulls away he’s breathless, burying his face on her neck, but he’s somehow lighter, too. _Better._

            “I love you,” she says.

            “And I love you, Swan.”

            “Good. Now, sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

            “You, too.”

            She nods, and he drifts off, wrapped in the warm softness of her.

\---

            (Maybe the man he was a year ago wasn’t worthy of all of this. Of her. But he’s determined not to be that man ever again—and with her to guide him, this family to be his home, he thinks he’ll succeed in that.)

\---

            He wakes up early, and loath as he is to get up, he knows he should run by his apartment for a change of clothes. And, as Emma’s entire kitchen is currently in boxes (he’d helped her pack it after the mashed potatoes were finished yesterday), he figures he can pick up breakfast as well.

            So he carefully climbs out of bed, picking his way through the boxes. Emma stirs as he opens the door. He pauses.

            “Killian?”

            “I’ll be back soon,” he tells her, waiting to see if she responds. She just nods and he slips out into the hall.

            He’s about the leave the apartment when he hears a door. Henry comes shuffling out into the living room, hair still mussed from sleep. It makes Killian smile.

            “Morning, lad.”

            “Where are you going?” he asks.

            “I was going to go my house for a few things, and to get breakfast.”

            Henry nods. Rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Shuffles his feet. Killian smiles to himself.

            “Do you want to come?”

            Henry nods again.

            “Alright, go get dressed. And don’t forget your scarf,” he adds as the boy takes off down the hall.

            Killian sends Emma a message while he waits, just in case she gets up before they return.

            _Henry’s with me. He hasn’t been kidnapped._

She responds once they’re in the car.

            _:)_

\---

            “What’s gonna happen to all your stuff?”

            “What’s that?”

            “Your stuff. When you come live with us. We already have a couch, and a microwave, and stuff. So, what’s gonna happen to all your stuff?”

            Killian glances over at Henry, who’s sipping away at his chocolate milk (Killian had tried to convince him that they should get a proper breakfast, but Henry talked him into donuts and chocolate milk instead), trying to figure out a response.

            “Well, it’ll stay in my apartment.”

            “Why are you still gonna have your apartment?”

            “Because—well, because I’m only moving in with you and your mum for a little while. Just for when Aidan’s first born. To help out.”

            “Yeah, but—” Henry pauses. Frowns in confusion.

            “I’ll still be around, after,” Killian reassures him.

            “I know.”

            Killian has no idea how to navigate this. The moving in together temporarily had been Emma’s idea—but the _temporarily_ seemed like more than just an afterthought. He doesn’t want to undermine her in front of Henry by saying that he _does_ want it to be permanent, and it’s Emma who doesn’t, but he doesn’t want it to seem like he _doesn’t_ want to be with them, either.

            So he changes the subject.

            “So, are you going to help with the move, or go with your mum to Mary Margaret’s?”

            “I’m gonna help with the move.”

            (He’d figured as much.)

            “Oh, good. You can help me put the crib together.”

            “Yeah?”           

            Killian nods.

            Henry smiles the whole way back.

\---

            It’s a long day. Emma goes with Mary Margaret and Ruby to pick up some things for Aidan (figure they may as well take advantage of the sales), and David and Robin help Killian and Henry. Once everything is at the new place they leave, though, and then it’s just the three of them—arguing over where to put the couch and which boxes to start unpacking first, eating pizza and assembling the beds, at least, putting new sheets on and plugging in the lamps, digging out toothbrushes and soap and towels, running to Target for extension cords and cleaning supplies.

            (He stays that night, too, but he’d planned ahead this time and has pajamas—and a change of clothes for the next day. Emma leaves the door open because it’s the first night in this new place and she thinks Henry might get scared, and sure enough, Henry comes in later that night, asking if he can sleep with them.)

            (And so they spend the first night at the new place all bundled up in Emma’s bed, talking about when they’re getting the Christmas tree and what kind of lights they’re going to put up.)

\---

            “I think he’s finally asleep,” Emma whispers.

            Killian nods.

            “Are you tired?”

            He nods again. In theory, he’d liked that the apartment was on the second floor. In practice? Well, he knows he’ll be sore tomorrow, in any case.

            “You can sleep in tomorrow. I’ll get breakfast,” she tells him.

            “Sounds good.”  

            She smiles at him and he returns it, feeling his eyes start to drift closed.

            “I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.

            “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

\---

            (He hopes he can stay.)

\---

            “Henry asked me what I’m doing with my furniture,” he tells her on Monday over lunch. He’d spent most of Saturday with them, helping unpack—putting Aidan’s room together—but he felt like he should leave Emma and Henry to have time together, so he’d left just before dinner. Meeting her for lunch on Mondays, though, has become something of a tradition.

            “What do you mean?”

            Part of him isn’t even sure he should be bringing it up, but it’s too late now.

            “I mean, Friday morning, he asked me what I’m doing with all my things since I’m moving in with you two.”

            “It’ll stay in your apartment.”

            “He asked about that, too,” he says carefully.

            Waits a moment.

            “Oh.”

            He nods.

            “What did you say?”

            “I told him that I was only moving in to help with Aidan. But I’d still be around after.”

            She nods. Looks down at her cup. And maybe he should leave it, but he’s already brought it up, and they’re both thinking about it anyway, so—

            “I know you think it’s too soon, but—”

            “No, I know. I know, it’s just—”

            He waits.

            “I don’t know,” she says on a sigh.

            “Should we agree on a day for me to move out?” he asks. And he isn’t trying to be passive aggressive, he just—if they’re going to do this (they _are_ doing this) then he wants to know the rules, wants to know where the boundaries are. If they’re going to call it temporary then they need to set it up as such, with start and end dates.

            “We don’t even have a day for you to move _in_ yet,” she points out in response. “When do you wanna do that, by the way?”

            He shrugs.

            “Whenever you’d like.”

            _Tomorrow, if that works._

            She frowns slightly.

            “Well. What about the seventeenth?”

            He nods.

            “That works.”

            She steals a fry off his plate.

            “Henry wants to get the Christmas tree this week. How’s Wednesday sound?”

            (And maybe it’s not much, but she isn’t returning to the move out date discussion, and she’s making plans that include him—as though there’s no way he _wouldn’t_ be part of them.)

            “That works for me,” he says with a smile.  

            “And you’ll help us decorate it, right?”

            “Of course.” He pauses. “Henry still believes in Santa, yes?”

            “God, yeah. Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy—you name it, he believes in it.”

            “And has he mentioned what he wants for Christmas yet?”

            “He’s dropped a few not so subtle hints. Neal said he’d get him sometime this week—I was gonna start Christmas shopping, if you wanted to come.”

            He nods again.

            She reaches out and takes his hand.

            “It’s not that I _don’t_ want—”

            “No, I know.”

            “It’s just—we’ll cross that bridge later, okay?”

            He smiles.

            “Okay.”

\---

            (It takes far longer than it should to find a Christmas tree because both Henry _and_ Emma are extremely picky, but eventually they settle for a solid looking noble and tie it to the top of Killian’s car, taking it to the new place (which is far more unpacked than it had been the last time Killian was here) and decorating it while drinking hot chocolate.)

            (And when Neal picks Henry up for the weekend, they go Christmas shopping. He picks up a _Baby’s First Christmas_ ornament (because he _might_ be early, after all), and she gets him a pirate ship one. _(“You should have something for the tree, too.”_ ) When they get back to the apartment they hang them on the tree and wrap the gifts they managed to find, hiding them on the top shelf of Emma’s closet, and he doesn’t leave until Henry gets back a two days later.)

\---

            (He ends up moving in on the fifteenth.)


	21. Chapter 21

**twenty-one.**

\-            

            She’s beyond ready for this kid to show up.

            Granted, she still has a few weeks yet—but God, she hopes this kid doesn’t decide to take his time. Pregnancy is boring and uncomfortable and she’s ready to just be done with it all already.

            And maternity leave will be starting soon, and on the one hand she’s looking forward to it, but on the other hand—

            Yes, it means no work. But she _still_ has to get up to take Henry to school, get him ready and feed him. Then there’s the apartment. They’re going to need to be completely moved in and _not_ living out of boxes within a week—two at the most. Because once Aidan’s here all her attention and energy will be focused on him—and Henry. Basically, once the baby comes everything will be focused on trying to take care of both her boys, figuring out how to balance it all, and living out of boxes is _not_ something she wants to deal with on top of it all.

            And there’s Killian, too.

            It’s a lot, in a short amount of time, and she’s tired and stressed and worried about how she’s going to do it—how she’s going to be able to love _two_ kids well. She worries enough that she’s failing Henry; now she gets to add another kid to the mix. Another kid who will need attention and support and love.

            She’s half afraid she won’t be able to do it. That she’ll lose them both in the attempt.

            And then there’s Killian, who’s so stupidly excited, who gets that ridiculous soft smile on his face whenever he sees her, who finds whatever excuse he can to rest his hand on her belly, who tells her he loves her, who misses her when he’s away— _Killian_.

            Sometimes she’s worried she’ll ruin it all, fail all three of them, but when he tells her that he’s afraid that _he’s_ not good enough—

            Reassuring him takes no effort at all.

            She may be shaky in her belief in herself, but she has no doubt that he’s enough, that he’s a good man, that he’s everything they need.

            Because she _loves_ him, and she believes in him, and she trusts him. And she’s beyond ready for this kid of theirs to arrive so she can see if he’s got his daddy’s eyes.

\---

            (She hopes so.)

\---

            It’s the last thing in the world they need. (Okay, maybe not _last_ , but still pretty unnecessary.)

            When they’d realized that move-in weekend coincided with the weekend after Thanksgiving—and Black Friday—Killian suggested that she take advantage of it and use the annual sales to go pick up some of the things they were going to have the get. The changing table, bathtub, baby towels, a second car seat—all these things they needed _anyway_ , that would be on sale. And it was a way to get her out of the house, because he was insistent that she not help, not lift anything, nothing. (Sometimes it’s adorable and sometimes it’s irritating. Depends on the hour.)

            So she suggested it to Mary Margaret and Ruby, both of whom jumped at the idea, and she kissed Killian goodbye as he and David and Robin (and Henry—in a thick sweatshirt and tattered jeans, gazing at the three men with stars in his eyes) started loading their cars with boxes, and drove to Babies’R’Us.

            She sees it right away, this simple wooden rocking chair—dark wood that even matches the crib they have. Blue seat covers. And, yes, it’s on sale, but do they _need_ it? There are enough things on their list as it is. (Killian gave her his card to use, told her not to worry about it, that he’d been saving.)

            But still. She hesitates.

            It’s Ruby who notices, nudging her.

            “You like it?”

            She nods, also hesitantly, and resists the urge to run her fingers across the arm. There’s a window overlooking the street in Aidan’s room; this chair would fit nicely there, she thinks. But it’s so—since when does she dream of rocking chairs in nurseries? (And _God_ , but they have a _nursery_.)

            “It’s on sale,” Mary Margaret points out—and it _is_.

            But—

            “Yeah, but we don’t really need it.”

            ( _But_ —)

            “So?”

            Ruby nudges her again.

            “I bet it’d be nice to have something for when he wakes up crying in the middle of the night.

            (With Henry she’d been in a tiny one bedroom; he had a small crib that she’d found at a Goodwill. More often than not, though, she just kept him in bed with her, especially early on. He’d wake up crying and she’d pull him out of his crib and settle back into bed to feed him, or spread out an extra blanket or towel to change him. There was no money—or room—for a changing table.)

            (Much less a rocking chair.)

            “I don’t even know if it’ll fit in the room,” she lies, taking a step back. It’s unnecessary. They don’t need to spend money on it. It’s—

            “Call Killian. See what he thinks.”

            She glances at Mary Margaret, who, from her look, sees through her excuses.

            “Yeah!” Ruby agrees. Emma sighs.

            “Yeah, okay, fine.”

            So she does. She calls him.

            “ _Everything all right, love?_ ”

            (This is how he answers the phone whenever she calls now. Because he read in one of his books that labor is faster with second pregnancies, and also sometimes earlier, and now he’s convinced Aidan will be early—though she’s reminded him that five weeks is a bit unlikely.)

            “Yeah, everything’s fine. How are you guys doing?”

            “ _Oh, you know. Just moving boxes back and forth._ ”

            She nods.

            “ _Was there something you needed?_ ” he asks after a pause.

            “No, just—” Mary Margaret gives her a look. “There’s this, this rocking chair. That we found. And—”

            “ _You should get it._ ”

            She bites her lip.

            “You think?”

            “ _Why not? Do you like it?_ ”

            “Well, yeah.”

            “ _So, get it._ ”

            “That’s it?”

            “ _If you like it, I don’t see why not. Maybe we can put it by the window in his room?_ ”

            She nods again, tearing up a bit.

            “Yeah. Sounds good.”

            “ _Don’t be so hard on yourself, love. Get the chair and whatever else you find for our boy. I’ll see you when you get back._ ”

            “Okay.” She pauses, aware of Ruby’s and Mary Margaret’s eyes on her. “Love you.”

            “ _Love you, too, Swan._ ”

            She hangs up and slips her phone back into her pocket.

            “Okay yeah, we’re getting the rocking chair.”

            Ruby cheers and Mary Margaret smiles.

\---

            (She gets that little leather jacket, too. But she thinks she’ll wait to tell Killian about that one.)

\---

            They drop her off as the guys are taking the last of the boxes up to the apartment, and David gives an exaggerated groan when he sees the boxes they’ve brought, too, but helps carry the changing table and rocking chair and everything else upstairs.

            “What’s in the bag?” Killian asks with a smile, giving her a quick kiss in greeting.

            “Just some things for Aidan,” she responds. He rolls his eyes in an _obviously_ gesture and she grins. “I’ll show you later.”

            They argue about where to put furniture after everyone else has left, and decide to put Aidan’s room together first. Emma sits in their new rocking chair and watches as Killian and Henry fumble their way through crib assembly, her heart impossibly full as Killian asks Henry to hand him the screwdriver, as Henry furrows his eyebrows in concentration as he reads the instruction manual, as they shake hands once it’s assembled, proud grins on their faces.

            On a roll, apparently, they put Henry’s bed together next, then Emma’s, figuring that they all need a place to sleep, anyway. She makes Henry’s bed while they build hers, smoothing the sheets and fluffing his pillows. There are boxes everywhere; tomorrow she’ll make sure he works on this while she works on the kitchen and living room. Her room can wait.

            “Emma?”

            She turns and sees Killian in the doorway, soft smile on his face.

            “Yours is all done, but Henry’s starting to get hungry. Shall we go pick something up?”

            She nods.

            “We should stop by Target, too.”

            “Yeah?”

            She nods.

            “Just to pick up a few things.”

            “Of course.”

            He crosses the room and wraps her up in a hug.

            “All right?” he asks quietly.

            “Yeah.”

            She kisses him softly.

            “Are you gonna stay tonight?”

            “Do you want me to?”

            She nods.

            “Then I will.”

            He kisses her again, and—

            “Mom! Killian! Can we _go_?”

            She pulls away and Killian chuckles.

            “Better get used to it, buddy. This is your life now.”

            His expression softens, and he reaches down to take her hands in his, lacing their fingers.

            “I look forward to it.”

            “ _Mom!_ ”

            She and Killian share another smile before meeting Henry in the living room, hands still linked.

\---

            “So did you have a good time with Mary Margaret and Ruby?”

            “Yeah. I guess things with Victor are getting serious.”

            “Yeah?”

            “She said he’s brought up marriage a few times.”

            “Huh.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Robin asked David if Regina’s seeing anyone.”

            “Robin and Regina?”

            “Right?”

            “She’s not so bad, once you get to know her.”

            “I gathered as much.”

            “There’s some—history—with her and Mary Margaret. But they’re both trying. And she’s had a rough time.”

            “So’s Robin.”

            “They might be good for each other.”

            “Yeah.”

            She brushes his hair off his forehead, letting her hand linger on his cheek.

            “Don’t let me forget, I have a key for you.”

            “Hmm?”

            “A key.”

            He raises an eyebrow.

            “What?”

            “No, just—you have a key for me.”

            “You’re moving in soon. And even if you weren’t—” She shrugs. “Of course you get a key.”

            He smiles, and she traces it with her fingers. God, she loves him. And—this. Talking about their day, their friends—whispering together in the dark, his face barely visible in the light from the streetlamps outside. This intimacy—

            With Neal it was different. For the most part they were living out of the Bug. There’s not much romance in curling up together in the backseat of a car that isn’t very roomy to begin with. And when they weren’t in the car, it was a hotel room, sneaking in and hoping that the cleaning staff wouldn’t notice that the people who paid for the room had already checked out.

            She’s never had _this_ before.

            And she’s almost _surprised_ by how much she likes it. By how much she enjoys this closeness. Maybe because she didn’t grow up with a family—she didn’t grow up with any sort of regular affection—without hugs or much touch at all—but she never—it’s not something she’s ever actively _sought_ , either. Killian, though, is a cuddler. And the thought makes her smile, because it’s the last thing she would’ve expected from him, but he absolutely is. And she can tell that he’s held himself back a lot, when it comes to touching her, but she’s finding that she _likes_ the way he reaches for her, how he’ll grab her hand or kiss her or wrap his arms around her when he first sees her, the way he buries his face in her neck, presses a soft kiss there. So she lets herself touch him, too, and it’s new, it’s all new for her—this kind of relationship, this grown up thing they have.

            Because she was just a kid with Neal. They were both—they were young and stupid. And in the years after she didn’t really have relationships. The closest she came was with Walsh, but even that was nowhere near what she has now with Killian. This is like—this is a thing that maybe started off not great, or ideally, but now it’s—it’s a relationship that’s based on trust. It’s where she can be vulnerable and know that he’ll not only not dismiss her, but take care of her. It’s where they can talk about random things, flirt and tease and steal food off each other’s plates, but also talk about the baby and Henry, where they can act like teenagers but also be the adults they are, with all the responsibilities that go along with having a kid and a baby on the way.

            (She _loves_ the way he’s slipped into this almost stepdad role with Henry so easily. She loves that she can see how much he genuinely cares about her son, and she loves that her son likes him, too, and wants to spend time with him.)

            Really, this is the first grown up, mature relationship she’s had.

            And sometimes she feels like she’s going to wake up and it will all have been a dream, but it’s not, it’s real, it’s everything she never had, everything she dreamed about as a little girl—half convinced she’d never get it because happy endings like that didn’t happen to girls like her—and yet here she is. With this man who is kind and good and not perfect—not a saint or an angel—but, somehow, perfect for _her_.

            “I love you,” he murmurs.

            “I love you, too.”

            He leans in to kiss her when they hear Henry’s door open, his steps in the hall. He presses a quick kiss to her lips and then pulls away, putting some space between them.

            “Mom?” Henry whispers from the doorway. She turns to look at him.

            “Hey, kid.”

            He shuffles his feet.

            “Can I sleep in here tonight?” he asks.

            “Of course,” she says, pulling the blanket back. “Do you wanna sleep in the middle, or on the end here?”

            She’s not sure how this works. Henry’s come in and snuggled up with her when he’s been scared before, but Killian’s the only person who’s ever shared her bed with Henry around. This is new territory. Will Henry feel weird? Will Killian? _Is_ it weird?

            Henry walks over and climbs into the middle of the bed, between her and Killian.

            (She’s not that surprised; it wasn’t so long ago that she was checking under his bed for monsters, and this _is_ the same kid who refuses to let his hand or leg fall over the side, for fear that something will grab him.)

            (She has a feeling that she won’t be the primary monster checker anymore, though.)

            ( _God_ , the thought of Killian checking for monsters and rocking Aidan back to sleep when he has a nightmare—)

            “Can we start decorating this week?” Henry asks.

            “Probably. Have to unpack a little bit first.”

            “Well, _yeah_. But can we get the tree at least?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you out white lights or color lights on your Christmas trees?” Killian asks.

            “Mom likes the white ones, but I like the colorful ones. What ones do you like?”

            “Well,” Killian starts, and she meets his eyes over Henry’s head. He smirks. “I think I’ll have to side with you on this one. The colorful lights _are_ pretty nice.”

            She groans as Henry turns to her (“ _See?_ ”) but she can help but grin, too.

            (She wonders when the last time Killan decorated a Christmas tree was.)

\---

            (And she doesn’t know why she’s fighting this so much, either. Yes, it’s fast, but it makes _sense_ for him to just move in now _._ They’re in this serious, committed relationship. They’re having a _child_ together. He’s going to be around, he’s going to _want_ to be around often, it doesn’t—it’s almost ridiculous to have him stay for a few weeks and then leave again, only to visit everyday anyway.)

            (Because she has a feeling he probably would want to. Unless things completely change and he decides that he doesn’t care for the whole fatherhood thing after all, she can’t imagine him being around _less_ after Aidan’s born.)

            (But it’s a huge thing, to move in together. It makes it _real_ —not that things aren’t real enough as it is. It’s just—)

            (She’s being ridiculous and she knows it, and she thinks he does, too (and apparently, so does her ten year old), but she just—she just can’t seem to let go on this yet.)

            (Hopefully eventually she will.)

\---

            The apartment is finally— _finally_ —unpacked. And decorated. All within a week.

            Killian’s beside her on the couch, mindlessly playing with a piece of her hair as they watch a hockey game. It’s a Sunday and Henry’s with Neal and Killian’s been here since Friday and she’s already started clearing out room for his things in her dresser, put extra hangers in the closet for his shirts.

            (There’s an ornament on the tree that’s his and a stocking that Henry helped him pick out, hanging on the end of the mantle next to hers.)

            (Henry was very excited about their fake fireplace, since their old apartment didn’t even have a pretend one. “ _Santa can make it work_ ,” he’d told her.)

            “What time is Neal bringing Henry?”

            “Didn’t say. Probably before dinner.”

            He nods. Presses a kiss to the side of her head.

            “Want me to leave before he gets here?”

            “Not really.”

            He chuckles.

            “Okay.”

            As if on cue there’s a knock at the door, and she gets up to answer, feeling Killian sit up a bit straighter as she goes.

            “Hi, Mom!” Henry greets brightly when she answers the door.

            “Hey, kid,” she says, pulling him in for a hug.

            “Hey,” Neal greets, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

            “Hello.”

            “Hi, Killian,” Henry says, dropping his backpack and joining him on the couch.

            “Hello, lad.” He nods to Neal, who’s smile has faltered slightly. “Neal.”

            “Killian.”

            “So, did you guys have a good time?” Emma asks him. Neal nods.

            “Yeah, it was great.” He looks around the apartment. “Looks like you’ve settled in pretty quick.”

            “Yep.”

            “Decorated, too.”

            She sees his eyes settle on the third stocking, but he keeps whatever comment he has to himself.

            “Yeah.”

            “So, I was thinking I could keep Henry for a couple days when he’s on break,” he tells her after a pause.

            “Yeah, that sounds good.”

            “And I’m guessing you want him for Christmas, right?”

            She’s _always_ had Henry for Christmas. Some years he’s come over that morning, and they’ve had breakfast before she and Henry go to David and Mary Margaret’s, but he’s _never_ asked her if he could keep Henry for Christmas.

            “Yeah. As always,” she replies with a tight smile.

            He nods, a slight challenge in his eyes. “Okay. We’ll talk later.”

            “We will.”

            “Bye Henry!” he calls, looking past her.

            “Henry, come say bye to your dad.”

            Henry tears his eyes away from the game and gets up to give Neal a hug.

            “Bye, Dad. See you later.”

            “See you later, bud. Love you.”

            “Love you, too.”

            Henry gives him one last smile before rejoining Killian on the couch.

            “Talk to you later, Em.”

            “Yeah. Bye.”

            (He nods once before going, not bothering to say anything to Killian—who, likewise, remains silent.)

            (She just barely resists the urge to roll her eyes.)

            “What’s for dinner, mom?”

            “I dunno, kid.”

            “Why don’t you go put your backpack away and then we can talk about it?” Killian suggests.

            (God, she loves this man.)

\---

            “ _I’m just saying, you always have Henry for Christmas._ ”

            “Yeah. Exactly.”

            “ _And_ _Thanksgiving._ ”

            “You’ve never made any sort of indication that you’d want him for _either_ holiday.”

            “ _Well, now I am._ ”

            “No.”

            “ _No? Really, Em?_ ”

            “Yes, no. We have plans. We _always_ spend Christmas together. I don’t understand why you can’t just come over on Christmas morning, _like you always do_.”

            “ _Oh, so I’m still allowed to do that?_ ”

            She sighs heavily.

            “ _Yes_ , Neal, _of course_ you can still come over and see your son on Christmas. When have I _ever_ stopped you from doing that?”

            “ _I mean, you’re stopping me from having him on Christmas._ ”

            “Because the system we have works!”

            “ _For you maybe._ ”

            “What do you want, Neal?”

            “ _I want to spend time with_ my _son on Christmas._ ”

            “And you can’t do that by coming over on Christmas morning when he wakes up?”

            “ _Killian’s gonna be okay with that?_ ”

            “Killian has never said anything about you spending time with Henry. Killian changes nothing here, Neal.”

            “ _Bullshit._ ”

            “I don’t see you making more of an effort to see Henry, all you do is—”

            “ _I see him the same as I always have—_ ”

            “Exactly. Come over on Christmas, Neal, don’t make this into something it isn’t.”

            “ _When’s he moving in?_ ”

            “That’s not your business.”

            “ _He’s gonna be living with you, he’s gonna be around my son, that makes it my business._ ”

            She sighs again.

            “A little over a week.”

            “ _So he’ll be there on Christmas._ ”

            “Yes. But that doesn’t mean you can’t.”

            Neal’s silent on the other end.  be

            “ _Fine. But I’ll keep Henry for a few days before._ ”

            “Okay.”

            “ _And when the kid’s born, if you end up sending Henry anywhere, I want you to ask me first._ ”

            “Okay. But I don’t imagine I’ll be shipping him off.”

            “ _But if you do._ ”

            “You have first dibs, I get it, Neal.”

            A tense silence follows. She half wants to just hang up, but that would be immature, and she _really_ doesn’t want him to threaten taking her to court or something. She doesn’t think he _would_ , but he might say it to get his way, and she’s rather not deal with that right now. Or ever.

            “So are we done?”

            “ _Yeah. I guess we’re done._ ”

            “Okay. I’ll talk to you later, then.”

            “ _Yeah. Later, Em._ ”

            She hangs up first.

            (It’s the small victories.)

\---

            While they’d decided, arbitrarily, on the seventeenth as the day Killian would move in, they end up bumping it up.

            (Because it doesn’t _really_ make sense for him to move in on a Sunday when he’d likely spend the weekend with them anyway.)

            (And as the due date gets closer he’s getting more and more worried that Aidan will be early—despite the number of times she’s told him that a _week_ early is far more likely than _three_.)

            Thursday he doesn’t come over at all. She wants to have a day with Henry, just the two of them, since Killian will be moving in—and thus, around always—and the baby will be here soon, too. So she picks him up from school (already on maternity leave) and they go to the movies and out to dinner. (They get hot chocolate after, too.)

            “You’re good with all this, right?” she asks.

            He takes a bite of his muffin and nods.

            “Yeah.”

            “’Cause I know it’s a lot of changes.”

            “Yeah, but it’s good change.”

            “Yeah?”

            He nods again.

            “I’m excited about Aidan, and I like Killian.” He shrugs. “And it’s cool to be like a regular family, you know?”

            Her heart breaks a little bit.

            “But you know, it doesn’t change _everything_ , right? You can still talk to me, and if you ever get tired of hanging out all together, you and me can still go do stuff just the two of us, okay?”

            “I know.”

            “I still love you, and all this stuff doesn’t change that.”

            Henry covers her hand with his.

            “I know, Mom. It’s okay. I’m excited about everything.”

            She smiles (tearfully) at him.

            “Good, I’m glad.”

\---

            (He sneaks into her room that night, asking if he can stay with her, and it’s the end of an era, a little bit—but it’s a beginning, too.)

\---

             And it’s—strange is maybe not the right word, but it’s the first she can think of—to be living together. The weekend is fine, normal, like any other time he’s stayed the night, and it doesn’t _really_ set in until Monday—waking up when his alarm goes off, trying to navigate around each other as they get ready, getting breakfast for Henry _and_ him, giving him a kiss goodbye before he goes.

            At lunch he tells her that he can take Henry to school, if she wants, since he has to go to work anyway. Let her sleep in a bit.

            The idea hadn’t ever even occurred to her.

            But the next morning she takes him up on his offer, staying in bed when he gets up, a sleepy goodbye as he kisses her forehead before he goes.

            And it’s the strangest moments, when it all hits her, the reality of this. She nearly starts crying folding laundry, alternating between Killian’s work shirts and Henry’s tees, their wool socks in a pile at the bottom of the basket—identical except for the size. Grocery shopping and picking up the cereal Killian likes and more filters for his coffee. Meeting him for lunch and parting with a “See you at home,” not a “Goodbye.”

            (She _does_ cry when she washes all the things they have for Aidan, all his tiny onesies and pajamas and even tinier socks, his blankets and bedding.)

            But it’s good, it’s going well. He drops Henry off at school that week and she picks him up, and Killian gets home a few hours later, greeting her with a smile and a kiss. Sometimes they eat dinner at the table, sometimes they get take out and eat in the living room. Sometimes when Henry sits at the table and does his homework he asks Killian for help, and he’ll sit down and talk him through scales and ratios and she swears her heart grows a size or two.

            (Sometimes he lets Henry have soda just before bed or uses the last of the soap and doesn’t tell her or puts dirty dishes in with the clean dishes in the dishwasher because he wasn’t paying attention, and she wants to strangle him.)

            (But mostly it’s good.)

\---

            It’s three days until Christmas and she’s doing some last minute gift-wrapping. Neal picked Henry up yesterday, and he’ll bring him back on Christmas Eve. It’s quiet, and she figures she should enjoy this—at just under two weeks away from her due date, she knows that, theoretically, Aidan could come any moment. (Killian had declared it safe for him to arrive now; he wouldn’t be premature at this point, and it’s unlikely he’d have breathing problems this far along.) It’s lonely, though, too. Killian’s been working a lot lately, leaving earlier and staying later, and he’s working Christmas Eve _and_ the day after Christmas. New Year’s Eve and day, too. He wants to save all his vacation, because either he has days left at the end of the year—for which he’ll be paid—or he’ll get to use them when Aidan’s born, if he’s early. And while she doesn’t mind being by herself, she misses them just the same.

            So it’s surprising to hear a key in the lock, to see Killian walk in, grinning widely when he sees her.  

            “Hey,” she says with a smile.

            “Hello, love,” he says. She stands up to meet him and he pulls her into a hug. He smells like salt and grease and metal—he always does when he gets home from work—and she pulls back just enough to give him a kiss.

            “What are you doing home at this hour?”

            “I think I’m coming down with something,” he tells her. She takes a step back—the last thing she needs is to get sick, too—but he just grins wider and takes a step forward again. “At least, that’s what I told work,” he mutters, kissing her again. “You really think I’d risk it?”

            “Ah. So you’re playing hooky.”

            He nudges her nose with his, lips brushing hers lightly.

            “Perhaps I just wanted to spend time with you.”

            There’s a tug at her heart and she smiles at him. That’s _exactly_ what she wants, too. But he looks exhausted, and it’s especially noticeable this close.

            “You should rest,” she tells him.

            “You should rest with me,” he responds, wiggling his eyebrows. She rolls her eyes.

            “That’s not resting.”

            “No, but it’ll make me feel better.”

            She smiles despite herself, giving him a quick peck.

            “I need to finish wrapping these but go lay down and I’ll be there soon.”

            “Okay.” He kisses her again. “I love you.”

            “I love you, too,” she says softly.

            He grins at her once more before letting her go and disappearing down the hall.

            (When she joins him a few minutes later he’s already asleep, passed out on top of the covers. She smiles to herself and lays down next to him, pulling the covers up around them and settling into light slumber.)

\---

            She wakes up to the feel of his hand on her belly, rubbing small circles under her t-shirt. When she opens her eyes he’s gazing down with a tender expression, and she wants him like this always.

            “Hey,” she whispers. He meets her eyes and smiles lightly.

            “Hello.” He chuckles. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

            She smiles.

            “You needed it, though. Been working hard lately.”

            He doesn’t respond, nor does he move his hand.

            “I want to meet him already,” he says softly.

            “Yeah. Me, too.”

            Aidan kicks once, as though he knows they’re talking about him, and she smiles.

            “Seems like he wants to meet us, too,” she mutters.

            He has that look he gets sometimes—usually at the doctor’s office, but really whenever they’re close like this, when he has his hand on her belly and feels him kick, or when he talks to him, voice low and soft—when they talk about him—and it’s _real_ and _soon_.

            She wants to ask him what he’s thinking—what’s going through his mind when he gets that look, but she doesn’t, she stays quiet and waits for him. Maybe he’ll start talking or maybe he’ll meet her eyes again and kiss her, start talking about something else, but for now—

            “Hello, Aidan. You’re awake now, too?” he says.

            She feels the baby kicking, responding to Killian’s voice, and the emotion wells up in her chest. He glances up at her for a moment, smile on his face.

            “Your mum and me were just talking about you.”

            Another kick.

            “So what do think. Another week? Two?”

            Aidan kicks again and Killian grins.

            “Soon, at least.”

            He looks at her, expression softening, and leans forward to kiss her.

            “I’m betting December 29,” he tells her suddenly.  

            She laughs thickly.

            “Oh, now we’re betting?”

            He nods.

            “What date are you picking?”

            “Hmm. I think I’ll go with January 3.”

            “Solid choice.”

            “Yours, too.”

            “Maybe the best man win.”

            She smiles and kisses him again.

            (His guess is a week away.)

            (A _week_.)

            “I don’t want you to move out,” she says. He freezes, eyes searching hers.

            “No?”

            She shakes her head.

            “I don’t want to get used to having you around like this and then have you leave. I want you to stay.”

            He doesn’t say anything right away. Just smiles, eyes bright, sparkling with something like joy, and, yeah. She wants him like this forever.

            “Good. I’m glad. Because I want to stay, too,” he whispers.

\---

            (And he may not say it out loud, but she thinks he’s thinking it, too. _Forever_.)

            (It’s got a nice ring to it, anyway.)

\---

            Neal brings Henry by around noon on Christmas Eve. Henry’s bursting to tell her about his time with him  ( _“We went ice skating!_ ”) and Neal tells her he’ll come by early tomorrow morning before giving Henry a hug and going.

            Mary Margaret comes over and they make gingerbread houses, crumbs and frosting getting _everywhere_ , but it’s worth it (it’s always worth it) to see the smile on her kid’s face. (And on a normal day he’d be stuffing himself with candy canes and gum drops and all the other candy they have for decorating their houses, but he wants to fall asleep early so Santa will come, so he’s limiting how much sugar he’s eating, and that makes her smile, too.)

            Killian has no such qualms, and when he gets home he proceeds to eat no less than four candy canes, scooping frosting out of the can with his finger like a child until she hits his hand away, telling him he’ll ruin his dinner if he keeps it up.

            (He just smirks and kisses her, lips ridiculously sweet against hers.)

\---

            Henry goes to bed at nine—after unsuccessfully trying to convince Killian to let him open one of his gifts. Admittedly, there aren’t very many presents under the tree yet. She’d explained to Killian that she really only did Santa gifts for Henry, not Santa gifts _and_ gifts from her. Christmas is expensive, and she couldn’t afford to do both, so most years she gave Henry one gift from herself, and saved the rest—the big things, especially—for Santa. Killian got him a few things, and then there are a few small gifts for David and Mary Margaret and everyone that they’ll see tomorrow (and then Henry’s painstakingly wrapped gifts for _them_ )—but still, it’s rather empty under the tree. And she insists on waiting until midnight to pull out the Santa gifts, just in case Henry wakes up.

            Killian volunteers himself to eat the cookies and milk that they’ve left out for Santa  (she rolls her eyes and lets him after taking a cookie for herself), and insists on carrying the gifts to the living room (“You aren’t supposed to do any heavy lifting.”) (“It’s _Legos._ ”).

            “How long do children typically believe in Santa?” he asks as they arrange the gifts under the tree.

            “I dunno. I think Henry’s at the age where they start to outgrow it, but with another little one—”

            “He might have a few more years?”

            “Yeah.”

            She starts stuffing the stockings with candy when Killian disappears into the bedroom, emerging a few moments later with three small wrapped gifts.

            “What’s that?” she asks.

            “Well,” he starts, slipping one into her stocking, one into Henry’s, and the other into Aidan’s, “I figured I ought to practice at being Santa.”

            (He’d _also_ insisted that they get a stocking for Aidan, in case he made his appearance before Christmas, but they’d agreed on only one or two gifts for him, as he might _not_.)

            But her heart swells at the expression on his face, at that fact that he went out and got these gifts—and _wrapped them_ —in secret, for them. (Usually she just puts candy in her own stocking, but she got a small something for his.)

            “Yeah,” she manages finally, full of emotions. “Probably a good idea.”

            She hugs him, then, burying her head in his chest, and that’s when the tears fall. _God_ , she never expected this. Never could’ve imagined a year ago that _this_ is where she’d be now—never imagined when she realized she was late and what that meant that _this_ —

            “Thank you for letting me have this,” he murmurs, and her chest tightens again.

            “Thank you for wanting it.”

            He kisses the side of her head, and she can feel him smile as Aidan kicks between them.

            “Come on, let’s go to bed,” she says, pulling back and taking his hand. “Henry will probably be up at the crack of dawn.”

\---

            (Henry _is_ up at the crack of dawn, running into their room at 6:03 and telling them that Santa came and come _on_ , there are _presents_ , and so they drag themselves up and into the living room. Emma wraps herself in a blanket and sits on the couch as Henry plops himself on the floor by the tree, wide grin as he tries to pick which gift he wants to open _first_. Killian wraps his arm around her and watches with a smile as Henry goes through his gifts.

            And she’s glad Henry got up so early because Neal won’t be here until 9, and she’s glad they get to have these moments together, without him—like when Henry opens his gifts from Killian and gives him a big hug, or the laugh Killian lets out when he sees the tiny leather jacket ‘Santa’ left for Aidan, or when she opens the gift he’d slipped in her stocking—a pair of socks with yellow ducks on them—or when he opens the gift she’d slipped in his.

            It’s a small photo she got from Tink and had framed, of him and Liam when they were younger. Tink had given her a few such photos—mostly of Killian and his brother, but a few including her, and one of their mother. His smile falters when he sees it, and he meets her eyes in silent question, looking away only when Henry leans over to see what it is and ask who that other guy is.

            “That’s my brother. He died a few years ago.”

            “Oh.”

            “I didn’t have any pictures of him.”

            Henry smiles at him.

            “Santa’s magic like that.”

            “Yeah,” Killian says, meeting her eyes again. “Must be.”)

\---

            Killian corners her in the kitchen while she’s making hot chocolate after Neal’s arrived, wrapping his arms around her from behind and burying his face in her neck.

            “Thank you.”

            “Of course,” she says, turning to face him.

            “Tink?” he asks.

            “Yeah. She gave me a few, but I liked that one best.”

            He nods, eyes soft.

            “I can show you the rest later, if you want.” He nods again. “Merry Christmas,” she murmurs.

            “Merry Christmas, Swan.”

            He kisses her—and, naturally, at that moment Henry shouts for them from the living room.

\---

            (Neal and Killian at least _pretend_ to get along, and after he leaves they get ready and go to David and Mary Margaret’s, and it’s the same crew from Thanksgiving, plus Tink. They stay late again, Killian once more carrying Henry upstairs as he’d passed out on the way home, finally crashing after all the sugar he’d eaten, and it’s—she’s had some great Christmases these past few years, but this one is definitely the best of them all.)

\---

            (The following days pass in a blur of Killian working late, of Henry building his new Legos all over the house, of waiting for Aidan to make his appearance.)

            (December 29 comes and goes and still nothing.)

\---

            New Year’s Eve they stay at their apartment, ordering a bunch of food and watching movies, Killian pouring them all sparkling cider in champagne glasses and kissing her at midnight. They go to bed right after—he has work that day, after all—and she doesn’t even wake up when he leaves a few hours later.

\---

            And it’s just another day, nothing out of the ordinary—watching TV and making Henry lunch, Killian calling to ask what she wants him to pick up for dinner—and she’s familiar with Braxton Hicks contractions, has had them on and off for the past week or so—but—this feels _different_.

            She texts Neal when Killian gets home.

            _Can you take Henry tonight?_

_Not tonight, sorry. Tomorrow?_

            “Everything all right, love?” he asks.

            A contraction hits right then and, yep, every five minutes now.

            “I think I’m in labor.”  


	22. Chapter 22

**twenty-two.**

           The books didn’t prepare him for this.

            (Though he’s not sure that _anything_ can prepare you for this.)

            And it’s not as though they’re unprepared—they have a bag packed for the hospital, he knows the route (he may or may not drive it every other day, just to make sure he knows it, just to make sure there aren’t any unforeseen construction projects springing up along the way)—but she tells him she’s in labor and it all goes flying out of his head, and all he can hear is the roaring of blood in his ears, feel how his heart is beating—all he can think is _this is it_ and _God_ , is he ready for this?

            He doesn’t have the choice not to be.

            “Are you guys coming?” Henry asks as he walks into the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. As though everything is _fine_ and _normal_ and—

            “We have to go to the hospital,” he says suddenly. Henry looks at him like he’s crazy.

            “What?”

            “I’m having the baby, kid,” Emma says with a smile that turns to a wince as a contraction hits her— _this is happening, this is happening_ —

            “Whoa, cool!”

            “Grab your coat. And a hat. And—” he turns to Emma. “You stay here, I’ll grab your things.”

            Emma rolls her eyes at him.

            _Rolls her eyes._

            “I’m not an invalid, I can get my coat.” She kisses him on the cheek briefly and it calms him, a bit, this casual intimacy. “Grab the bag from the room, okay? I’ll tell David and Mary Margaret to meet us there.”

            He stays frozen to his spot a moment longer, broken out of the spell when she shouts for Henry to bring a book or something, too; they might be there a while—and then he rushes and grabs the bag they packed, throws on his coat, makes sure Emma’s got a hat, too, and Henry his scarf, ushers them to the car—stopping briefly in the stairwell to wait out a particularly nasty contraction, Emma gripping his hand tightly and Henry trying to cover his concern—

            And he does _not_ speed to the hospital, he follows all the proper traffic laws, but he _still_ manages to get them there in record time (holding Emma’s hand the entire way, eyes drifting to the clock to time her contractions—four minutes apart by the time they arrive)—

            And Mary Margaret rushes in a few moments after they arrive, and Henry stays with her while Emma gets set up in a room, and she’s still holding his hand—

            And the doctor comes in to see her—

            And they wait.

\---

            “New Year’s Day. Not a bad birthday.”

            “Might not make it in time.”

            “You think?”

            She starts to shrug as a contraction hits, hand tightening around his, face scrunched up in pain.

            He feels so _useless_. All he can do it hold her hand and try to make her laugh—try to distract her from the pain, fetch her more of those ice chips—all he can do is _sit here_. And while there’s no place he’d rather be, it’s—

            She takes a deep breath and her grip loosens, coming back to him, a bit, and she _smiles_. Set up in a hospital bed, in a stupid, cheap gown, face flushed, already so tired—and she _smiles_ at him.

            She’s never been more beautiful than she is at this moment.

            “My money’s on the second,” she tells him.

            He smiles.

            “I’ll take that bet.”

\---

            (He loses.)

\---

            Aidan Liam is born at 2:06 am on January 2—after just over nine hours of labor, after a dinner of hospital cafeteria food (because in their haste to get to the hospital they never got to eat—the food is probably still sitting on the coffee table in the living room where they left it), after an evening of going back and forth between Emma’s room and the waiting room, of calling Tink and Ruby and Robin and Graham (and Neal—a rather awkward conversation, but Emma felt he should know, and pulled the ‘I’m in labor, you do it’ card), of trying (and failing) to convince Henry to go home with David to get some sleep, of nursing a cup of hospital coffee for an entire night, stomach too nervous to eat or drink anything—

            After nine months of waiting, of hoping, of so much— _everything_ —changing—

            Their son is born.

            (And he’s _perfect_.)

\---

            And there’s no way to describe—the absolute _fear_ , the feeling of uselessness, of complete uncertainty, of anticipation, holding Emma’s hand and encouraging her to push, to breathe, that she can do this, they’re nearly there, almost done—

            Hearing his cries and _it’s a boy_ and _does Dad want to cut the cord?_ And _cutting the umbilical cord_ and he’s _here_ and _alive_ and so, _so_ small, and crying and squirming and he might be crying, too—Emma is, Emma is—Emma is _gorgeous_ —and they give him to her, let her hold him, and _God_ , he wants to—to bottle this moment, save it and keep it and have it always, this moment of her and their son— _their son_ —

            And he feels so far from it, almost, like a casual observer, watching this thing unfold, and then she looks up at him and he can’t help it—he’s drawn in, drawn toward her, kissing her on the forehead and reaching a tentative hand to touch _him_ , to feel his brand new baby skin, still slick and warm and bloody—

            And the nurses take him to wash him off, wrap him in a blanket, and—

            “Do you want to hold him?”

            And he thinks he nods, he might speak, but regardless—

            They place him in his arms—“Watch his head”—and he doesn’t think he’s ever held a baby—certainly not a newborn—and he’s half afraid he’ll drop him, he’ll hurt him somehow, and he can’t, he won’t, he’d _never_ —

            He adjusts his grip and rocks him slightly, unable to take his eyes off his little face, still whimpering and looking around madly and—

            “Hey there, little one,” he manages finally. “Been waiting for you.”

            (His heart may very well burst out of his chest when Aidan’s eyes focus up on him, his cries quieting.)

            ( _His son_.)

\---

            He hands him over to Emma again—can’t help kissing her again, resting his forehead against hers, heart _so full_ —

            And it’s incredible, the love he feels for him, already—he’d go to the end of the world for him—them—end of the world, time, anything, _everything_ —for Emma and his boy— _theirs_ — _his_ —

            “Wanna go tell everyone?” she whispers.

            “Not right now.”

            She chuckles lightly.

            “We’ll still be here when you get back. Henry should know he’s a big brother now.”

            He grins wider, if possible.

            “Okay, fine. But I’ll be right back.”

            “Okay.”

            “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

            He presses the lightest of kisses to the top of Aidan’s head, the dusting of fair hair there.

            “Love you as well, lad.”

\---

            (Henry’s asleep in his chair, leaning against David, who’s browsing _Time_. It’s Mary Margaret who sees him first, jumping up—Ruby beside her.

            “Is he—?”

            He just smiles and goes over to Henry, kneeling in front of him and shaking him lightly awake.

            “Killian?” he mumbles sleepily as he comes to.

            “You’re, officially, a big brother now,” Killian tells him. Henry’s whole face lights up. “Want to come see him?”

            “Can I?”

            Killian nods.

            “And Mom, too?”

            “Yeah.” He addresses the others now, standing as Henry does. “7 pounds, 4 ounces. 21 inches long. He’s wonderful, and Emma’s—she’s great as well.”

\---

            (Mary Margaret cries, and Ruby cries, and David _pretends_ not to cry, but he does. Tink visits the next day and cries, too, and Aidan has blue eyes like his, and he think his favorite smile is the one Emma has when she looks at their boy, all gentle love and affection and they’re _his_ , they’re his _family_ , and he didn’t think it possible to love someone as much and as quickly as he loves his son but he loves his son.)

            ( _Aidan_.)

\---

            “Are we all finished with this?” he asks, waving around the certificate they’d had to fill out.

            “Yeah—just make sure I spelled your name right and everything, okay?”

            He nods, eyes scanning the page, checking for errors.

            _Aidan Liam Jones._

            “Swan?”

            “Hmm?”

            “You’ve forgotten the ‘Swan.’”

            “No I didn’t.”

            “Yes, you’ve—it’s just here as Jones.”

            She doesn’t answer. He frowns, confused.

            “I thought—”

            “And _I_ thought, and—” she shrugs, looking down at Aidan, asleep in her arms. “I thought he should be Jones.”

            He opens his mouth but finds he has no words to say. Tries again.

            “You don’t—it won’t bother you, that you don’t have the same last name?”

            She shrugs again, still avoiding his eyes.

            “I think I’ll manage.”

\---

            (And it’s all he can think of—how she could have his last name, too.)

\---

            It snows the day they get to go home. He must bring every blanket they have for Aidan, watching as Emma dresses him in a soft blue onesie—tiny white socks even though he’s wearing footie pajamas—pulling a little cap over his head and mittens on his hands before they tuck him into the car seat carrier. _That’s_ when he sets to covering him with the blankets—covering his body, just under his chin, and then another two over the whole thing to block him from the cold all together, and then they’re off.

            (Emma has to be walked out in a wheelchair, but they let him carry Aidan.)

            Henry’s already back at the house with David and Mary Margaret and Ruby—who’ve promised to not stay too long, as Emma’s tired and wants the chance to rest— _without_ company—and, honestly, he’s a selfish man and he wants the chance to be alone with his family, without anyone else there to distract or take this time.

            (He’d wanted to take all two weeks of his vacation, but Emma talked him into only taking one; it’s barely January, and a year is a long time to go without any vacation—and what if something else came up and he wanted to take the day? There are only so many sick days.)

            So they arrive and they take Aidan out of his carrier—his cheeks are a bit flushed from the cold but he still feels warm—and he’s sleeping. The others coo over him a bit before leaving, and Henry disappears to his room (babies aren’t very exciting when they’re asleep, he’d recently declared), leaving Killian alone with Emma and Aidan.

            “You wanna go take a nap?” he asks her.

            “Yeah. You’ll be okay?”

            He nods from his position on the couch, Aidan cradled in his arms, sound asleep.

            “I think we’ll be all right.”

            “Okay.” She kisses him before she goes. “Come get me when he wakes up. He’ll probably be hungry.”

            They make it through two reruns of The Office before Aidan wakes—squirming and blinking up at Killian. Killian smiles down at him, gently pulling his cap off, running his hand over the bit of hair he has there.

            “Morning, lad,” he says softly. Aidan just looks at him, wiggling slightly, eyes focused on his face. “Are you hungry yet, or shall we let your mum sleep a bit longer?”

            Aidan doesn’t respond (of course), and Killian smiles again. He looks like Emma, but maybe it’s just his coloring. His baby soft skin and wisps of fair hair. He’s got her nose, definitely, but Killian thinks there’s something of Liam in his ears, and the thought tugs at his heart.

            Liam would’ve—

            He wonders what Liam would think. To see him now. Working and happy and with a _family_ —a woman he adores and a boy he loves as his own and a _son_. 

            He stands, careful not to jostle Aidan too much.

            “Suppose I should say ‘welcome home.’ That’s where you are, now. This here’s the living room,” he tells him, Aidan just watching him in silence. “That there is the kitchen.” They peek in briefly. Then he starts down the hall. “That room there is your brother’s. You’ve met him, too. Henry. I think you’ll like him a lot.” He opens the door to Aidan’s room, unprepared for the rush of emotions that sweep through him.

            This is the first time he’s been in this room since he was born—this is the first _Aidan_ has been in this room.

            “This is your room,” he tells him. “That’s your bed—your brother and I put that together. That’s the mobile your mother _insisted_ on getting. You’ll spend a lot of time here. That’s the rocking chair—your mother and I will spend a lot of time there, probably.”

            He walks out, leaving the door open behind him, and quietly enters their bedroom.

            “This is your mum’s and my room. And there’s your mum,” he whispers. Emma’s changed into pajamas, from what he can tell, tucked in under the covers, still asleep. “Let’s try not to wake her, aye? She’s had a long few days.”

            He sits onto the bed carefully, readjusting his grip on Aidan and leaning against the headboard. He bends his knees and rests Aidan on his legs so he can look directly at him.

            He’s so _small_. And he’s known he would be—expected it—but it’s different to see the onesies and the socks and another to see _him_ , to see his little socked feet and his tiny hands and tinier fingernails, to feel his little body wriggling and his chest rising and falling as he breathes.

            Beside him Emma stirs, turning on her side toward them and blinking her eyes open sleepily.

            “Hey,” she says, voice thick with sleep. “He’s awake?”

            “Yeah, but he’s fine.”

            She reaches over and rests her hand on Aidan’s foot, and his squirms intensify, eyes darting around to find the source.

            “Hey, kid,” she whispers to him, sitting up a bit more and leaning against Killian. Aidan kicks his feet as his eyes focus on her, and he can feel Emma press a smile into his shoulder.

            “I gave him the grand tour,” he tells her.

            “Oh, good. Wouldn’t want him getting lost.”

            He smiles, content to spend the next few hours here, just like this.

            “I should feed him,” she says a few moments later, and as if on cue Aidan starts whimpering. She takes him, undoing the first few buttons of her shirt, trying to help him latch on. They’d had some success at the hospital, but from what the nurse said (and from what he’s read) it can be difficult and painful and take some time.

            He doesn’t know how long they sit there—Emma breastfeeding Aidan, Killian beside them—before Henry knocks on the door.

            “Mom? Killian?”

            “Yeah?”

            He opens the door slowly.

            “What’s for lunch?”

            “Want to go out and get something?” Killian asks. Henry nods.

            “Okay. I’ll be right out.”

            Henry nods again and heads back out into the hall.

            “I’ll get you something. Any preferences?”

            “No. Anything’s fine.”

            Aidan’s drifted off again; Emma buttons her shirt and lays him on the bed between them.

            “Okay.” He leans over and kisses her before he gets up. “Call me if you need me.”

            “We’ll be okay, Killian.”

            “Still.”

            He kisses her again.

            “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

            He presses a kiss to Aidan’s forehead before he finally leaves the room.

            Henry’s waiting for him on the couch and he makes quick work of his shoes grabbing his keys as Henry turns the TV off.

            “Anything in particular you’d like?”

            “Could we get Granny’s?”

            “Of course.”

\---

            (Granny asks to see pictures, and so he pulls out his phone, shows her the dozen, at least, he has of Aidan, of Aidan and Emma, of Aidan and Emma and Henry, of Henry and Aidan, and he wishes he had a desk at his job, just so he could fill it with pictures of them. He’s sure Jefferson and Smee will be thrilled when he gets back to work and forces them to look at all these pictures of his son, but, dammit, he has a _son_ , and he’ll show off pictures of him to whomever he can.)

\---

            Emma’s sitting on the couch when they get back, Aidan asleep in her arms.

            “Here, I’ll take him so you can eat,” he says. (Mostly, he just wants to hold him.)

            (Emma smiles at him like she knows and hands him over.)

            Henry puts on a movie, and Killian does his best to eat with one hand, holding Aidan in the other.

            He could get used to this one handed thing, he thinks.

\---

            (And he swears he doesn’t get hardly _any_ sleep, Aidan refusing to sleep, dozing for a little while and then waking up again, both of them trying to soothe him back to sleep, _finally_ managing as the sun starts to rise—and then it’s only a short nap before Aidan’s up and then Henry, asking what’s for breakfast because the milk expired and there’s _nothing_ , and Emma hands Aidan over and says she’ll go pick something up, and suddenly he’s alone in the apartment with a baby who won’t stop crying and Henry, who keeps turning the TV up to combat the sound, which makes Aidan cry _more_ , until Killian nearly snaps and shuts the TV off all together.

            He disappears back into their bedroom, shutting the door behind him and pacing about the room, talking to him and rocking him and trying to calm him down. He’s just about managed when he hears Emma get back, but he waits a few more minutes, until he’s _sure_ Aidan’s asleep again, to settle him in his room, leaving the door open in case he wakes up.

            They make it through the meal, and then he’s up again, Emma rushing to get him and feed him.

            And so it begins.

\---

            He goes back to work with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it gets him out of the house, something that happens very rarely when you’ve a newborn. On the other, he’ll be away from Aidan and Emma. And as much as Aidan hates sleep and as much as he fusses, it’s all worth it for those quiet moments, the way his little fingers closer around his, the way he kicks his legs excitedly and how peaceful he looks when he _does_ sleep.

            But he sets his alarm and wakes up when it goes off, dragging himself away from Emma and out of bed to get ready for the day (Aidan wakes up not ten minutes later, and so Emma gets up, too, feeding him as Killian wakes Henry for school and finishes getting ready.

            She joins them in the kitchen as Henry eats his cereal and Killian makes coffee (offering her a cup with a wink that she rolls her eyes at).

            Aidan’s settled, eyes drooping sleepily, barely even reacting when Killian brushes his hair lightly and kisses his forehead.

            “Have a good day, love,” he says, giving her a kiss, too, as he and Henry head for the door.

            “You, too. Love you.”

            “Love you.”

            “Have a good day at school, Henry,” she calls.

            “I will!”

            “I’ll call you later,” he promises.

            “I know. Go, or you’ll be late.”

            “Goodbye.”

            (He steals one more kiss before he goes.)

\---

            (Incidentally, he _does_ show Jefferson and Smee all the pictures on his phone. Jefferson smiles softly, as if remembering when his Grace was that young, and Smee nods and smiles.)

\---

            He’s surprised to see Tink when he and Henry get home that day, sitting on the couch with Emma, holding Aidan and cooing at him. He’s on his best behavior, it seems, staring up at her silently.

            “Hey,” he says. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”

            Tink smiles at him.

            “I just wanted to see my nephew.”

            “Technically he’s your cousin.”

            “He’ll call me auntie and you’ll let me have this, Killy.”

            He smirks, making his way over to them, giving Emma a kiss and a soft hello, brushing Aidan’s hand. Henry sits next to Emma, and she wraps him in a hug, asking how his day was.

            (Henry’s taken to brotherhood fairly well. A few days earlier he had a bit of a meltdown because he couldn’t sleep for all Aidan’s crying, and he’s more attached to Emma than Killian’s ever seen him, curling up next to her on the couch whenever he gets the chance. But he also asks to hold Aidan often, and just last night insisted on reading him a story from his fairy tale book to try to get him to sleep.)

            “How long are you staying?” he asks.

            Emma shoots him a look but Tink just laughs.

            “I was about to go, actually,” she says, handing Aidan over to him.

            “Feel free to come by whenever,” Emma tells her.

            “I will. He’s beautiful, really,” she says with a soft smile.

            “Thanks, Tink.”

            “Later, Emma. Henry.”

            “Bye,” Henry tells her.

            “And you,” she says to Aidan, who just looks around, squirming.

            Emma walks Tink out and he collapses next to Henry, Aidan starting to drift off in his arms.

            “Have fun with your Aunt Tink?” he asks.

            “How come you talk to him so much?” Henry asks.

            “Well, because he can still hear us, even if he can’t respond yet,” Killian tells him. “You could talk to him, too. Or read to him. I think he liked when you read to him.”

            “You don’t _know_ that, though. He’s a baby.”

            “Aye, but he kept quiet during the story, didn’t he?”

            Henry doesn’t have a response to that.

            Emma returns then, says she’s going to go lay down for a bit, to call her if he needs her.

            They watch TV in silence for a few minutes.

            Then:

            “Can I hold him?”

            Killian nods, smiling as he hands Aidan over (Henry’s held him often enough that he doesn’t feel the need to remind him to watch his head). Aidan wriggles a bit, then settles, gazing intently up at Henry. Henry smiles like he can’t help himself.

            “Hello,” he tells him (glancing up at Killian just after. Killian nods encouragingly). “So, uh,” and he looks over to Killian again.

            “Tell him about your day,” he suggests.

            “Okay. Uh,” and he looks back down at Aidan, who’s just watching silently, blue eyes wide and bright.

            (He knows the books say most babies are born with blue eyes, and most of them change, but he thinks—hopes—that Aidan will keep his blue eyes.)

            “Today we had music class. We started learning the songs we’re gonna sing for the spring concert. You’re gonna come to that, probably.”

            (Again, a glance at Killian. Killian nods.)

            (Of course they’ll all be there.)

            “And I’ve got homework tonight. Not a lot. But still. I liked being on vacation and not having any. Don’t worry, you have a long time before you have to worry about that stuff.”

            Aidan blinks.

            Henry blinks back.

            Both of them just staring at each other—learning each other, almost.

            Killian’s chest feels tight, the way Aidan looks up at Henry and the fondness in Henry’s eyes as he gazes back down at him.

            _Brothers_.

            “Killian, what’s for dinner?”

            “I dunno, lad. We’ll have to talk to your mum. Are you hungry now?”

            Henry nods.

            “Here, I’ll take Aidan and why don’t you go see if there isn’t anything to snack on.”

            “There’s probably not,” Henry grumbles. But he gives Aidan over to Killian just the same before getting up and heading to the kitchen. Aidan fusses a bit and Killian stands, rubbing his back and trying to get him to settle.

            “Are you hungry, too?”

            Aidan quiets down as Henry returns with a bag of chips.

            Killian wants to go ask Emma what they should do about dinner, but he imagines she’s napping, and he doesn’t want to disturb her, so instead he wanders about the room with Aidan, content to rub his little back and feel his chest rise and fall with his breaths.

            All there is in the pantry is a box of mac and cheese. There’s some bread that doesn’t look or taste off, so he makes the mac and cheese—Aidan perched in one arm, the other stirring the pasta—and some toast as well, serving Henry before getting Emma.

            She’s asleep, as predicted, and he hates to wake her but who knows if she even ate lunch? And Aidan’s probably going to need to eat soon.

            “Hey,” he says softly, shaking her slightly.

            She wakes quickly, posture relaxing when she sees him.

            “Hey.”

            “I made some dinner. You should eat.”

            “Okay,” she says, reaching for Aidan instead of getting up. “Let me feed him first. You go eat.”

            “Emma—”

            “I’ll be right there.” He nods.

            “Okay.”

            She catches his hand before he can go, pulling him down to kiss him softly.

            “Thanks for letting me sleep.”

            “Of course.”

            Aidan’s fussing properly now, his appetite hitting or perhaps just reminding them he’s there, but he leaves the door open behind him as he heads back to the kitchen.

            “Can we go to the store tomorrow?” Henry asks.

            “Of course. As soon as I pick you up from school. Sound good?”

            Henry nods.

            “Thanks for dinner,” he says, taking his plate to the sink.

            (When Emma enters a few minutes later she hands Aidan off to him and he’s out within minutes. He takes him to his room and gingerly sets him in his crib, leaving the door open a crack so they can hear him when he wakes.)

(They get to sit on the couch for almost an hour before Aidan’s up again.)

\---

            Aidan refuses to sleep. He’s not crying, really, just whimpering and kicking his arms and legs. He cries whenever they set him down in his crib and fusses when either of them hold him, and shows no signs of sleepiness, and after an hour they just set him on the bed between them, occasionally rubbing his tummy or letting him grab a finger. Waiting for him to tire himself out so _they_ can sleep.

            “I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks,” Emma says.

            “Same.”

            “Henry was so good. He slept all the time. Was sleeping through the night by the time he was one.” She sighs. “I have a feeling this one isn’t gonna be so easy.”

            “You gonna give us a hard time, little one?”

            Aidan’s squirms intensify. Killian sighs, too.

            “You should sleep,” she tells him. “You’ve got work tomorrow.”

            “Yeah.”

            “I can take him to the living room.”

            “No, it’s—”

            “One of us should get some rest.”

            “You need sleep, too.”

            “Yeah, but I get to spend all day here with him. You’ve got work. _And_ you’re taking care of Henry.”

            “Not—”

            “Mostly.” She reaches over and takes his hand. “Thank you.”

            “Of course. He’s—well, I mean, he’s not mine, but—” he shrugs, suddenly self-conscious, suddenly worried about what he’s saying and how she might react. But it’s too late to go back so he keeps going. “You’re my family, now. You and Aidan and Henry. And I’m going to take care of you—all of you. That includes him. So, of course I’ll—I don’t care that he’s not, _technically_ —because he is. Now.”

            And it’s true. He’s long since stopped thinking of Henry as Emma’s son. He’s—he’s not _his_ son, but he’s more than just the child of the woman he’s with. He’s his, somehow, now, too.

            They’ve not talked of marriage (it seems a bit soon, a bit much) (though he has no qualms about heading there) (has no illusions that they won’t get there eventually) and he’s almost positive that even if they _did_ he couldn’t adopt Henry (he knows Neal would have to consent to it and Neal would _never_ , and anyway, the fact that Neal is in the picture means he wouldn’t even try) but he still thinks—would want to refer to him as—stepson is probably the best he could do in terms of titles.

            (He wonders, suddenly, how Henry refers to him. His mother’s boyfriend? His brother’s father? Stepfather seems a bit soon, a bit early, a bit much.)

            (He desperately wants to be his stepfather someday, though.)

            “I love you,” Emma says, and he can tell even in the darkness that her eyes are teary.

            “I love you, too,” he tells her.

\---

            (A few weeks later Killian’s picking Henry up from school when he hears him tell his friend (a boy Killian hasn’t met yet) that “that’s my stepdad.” When they get to the car Henry looks at him a little unsurely.

            “What is it, lad?”

            “Is it okay if I call you that?”

            “What’s that?”

            “My stepdad?”

            Killian smiles, heart bursting.

            “Of course.”

            Henry smiles, too.

            “Cool.”)

\---

            (They get ice cream, that day.)

\---

            (When he tells Emma, she just smiles.) 


	23. Chapter 23

**twenty-three.**

            She thinks she forgot this part.

            No, scratch that. She didn’t forget.

            It’s just that last time, she was so worried about everything _else_ when it came to having a newborn that his not sleeping through the night was hardly the largest of her concerns.

            And boy does Aidan hate sleep.

            They figure out he’s colicky pretty early on, which—awesome. Great news. A ten year old who needs his sleep or he gets cranky as anything and a baby who hates sleep and spends most of his time crying himself hoarse.

            (Killian was beside himself, Googling things and wanting to rush him to the emergency room. He’s just colicky, she’d explained, and then he was researching _how to soothe colicky babies_ and practicing wrapping Aidan like a burrito in his blanket with the anchors on it.)

            (Because of course her three week old has a favorite blanket. Of _course_ he can tell the difference between which blanket they’ve wrapped around him, and of course he’s decided that the super soft blue one with anchors is his favorite, and he’ll fuss if they wrap him in anything else—like the grey and orange fox one, or the yellow one with the ducks.)

            But it’s exhausting and a little overwhelming, having this tiny little baby with his blue blue eyes (he’s Killian to a tee—he may have more of her coloring but he’s definitely his father’s son) staring up at her in expectation, relying on her to feed him and change him and rock him back to sleep.

            But it’s kind of wonderful, too, to stay home with him and not be as worried as she was with Henry, about bills and food and costs and everything else—to know that Henry is going to get to school on time and is going to have food to eat, to know that someone is going to pick him up, that she’ll be able to take a break at some point, that she doesn’t have to do all of this on her own.

            She may not have had a colicky baby last time, but she didn’t have someone to support her like Killian does last time, either.

            (And _God_ but seeing him with Aidan never ceases to make her heart flutter.)

            (And when he fumbles his way through telling her that they’re his _family_ and that he considers Henry his own, too—she didn’t think she could love him more but she’s honestly surprised she didn’t break into a sobbing mess. It’s how she felt, anyway.)

            And he’s not completely terrible, Aidan. He’s not fussy _all_ the time; sometimes he’s quiet. He likes it when she lays him on his back, likes to look up and out at the world, and she likes to watch him, to feel his soft hair under her fingers and feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes, his fingers clenching and unclenching around hers, his eyelashes fluttering as he drifts off.

            She takes lots of pictures of him (something she didn’t really get to do with Henry) and sends them to Killian while he’s at work. She knows he can’t really check his phone much, but he’d told her one day that he liked checking his phone at lunch and seeing the picture she’d sent of Aidan, so she tries to send them as much as she can, so that when he gets to take breaks he can see them.

            And she likes this. This family they’ve created. Loves it, actually—how Killian gives her a kiss as soon as he gets home, how he’ll lay on the couch with Aidan on his chest, how Henry will go to the store with her just for the chance to spend time together, how Killian will help him with his homework, how Henry will read Aidan a story most nights. For a long time she didn’t have anything that was hers, not really. A single bag that fit all her possessions, and she learned that it was useless to hold onto too much. You can’t take it with you and all.

            And then she had Henry, and he was hers—and, later, Neal’s to share.

            But this—this is finally something that she gets to keep, that she gets to call her own, that she doesn’t have to worry about having to leave behind.

            It’s not that it ever felt empty or not good enough, when it was just her and Henry. It was more than enough.

            This is just—this is just a fullness she never even realized she could have.

            Colicky baby and all.

\---

            Henry’d gone to stay with Neal for a weekend when Aidan was first born, but the way things worked out and the timing of everything, she hadn’t even seen him for the pick up or drop off.

            Henry’s home for the day—teacher’s inservice day—when Neal calls and says he’d like to take Henry for the week. Give them both a break.

            She barely has time to tell Henry to pack a bag before Neal’s there and knocking on the door, and it’s the first time they’ve seen each other since she gave birth, and also the first time he’s seen Aidan.

            “Hey.”

            “Hey.”

            “Henry ready to go?”

            “Not yet.” She adjusts Aidan in her arms. “Wanna come in and wait?”

            “Sure.”

            She opens the door a bit wider and steps aside for him to come in, and there’s a strange sort of tension between them, and she wishes Henry would hurry up and get out here so they can go.

            “Congratulations,” Neal says softly, nodding to Aidan.

            “Thanks.”

            Aidan regards him seriously, and Neal smiles slightly.

            “Blue eyes, huh?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Did Henry have blue eyes when he was born, too?”

            “No. His were always brown. Sometimes their eyes can change, but I think his are gonna stay.”

            “How come?”

            “Killian has blue eyes.”

            “Right.” He pauses. “Aidan, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Does he look like Henry did when he was a baby?”

            She shakes her head, throat tight.

            “No. Henry’s hair was dark, and he—well. He always looked more like you. Especially then.”

            “This one looks like you.”

            “And Killian.”

            “Mostly you, though. I think.”

            She doesn’t have a response.

            He seems to struggle with himself. Then—

            “Can I—could I hold him?”

            She doesn’t have words so she just nods, carefully hands Aidan over to him, and it’s—

            It’s all wrong, obviously—Henry was slightly bigger, hair darker, born in the summer so never as bundled up as this at this age, but it’s still—

            She would be lying if she said she hadn’t pictured it sometimes, before. Early on. What it would’ve been like if Neal had been there. What it would’ve been like to see him hold their son in his arms.

            She can feel the emotions rising up in her chest, clawing their way up her throat as she watches him with this child that isn’t his, knowing full well that he never got to have this with Henry—that Henry never got this with him, either—that Aidan will grow up with his father always around, always knowing and always wanting while Henry will wonder why there are no pictures of him with his father until he’s 4, and all she can think of is everything they missed out on—her and Henry and Neal—

            Because even if it was his own fault, even if the reason he never knew about Henry and never got to be there was because _he_ left—

            It doesn’t change the fact that he never got to hold his son when he was only a few weeks old, never got to see him or know him like this, and she thinks that her heart will always, _always_ ache for that.

            And seeing him holding Aidan just makes the ache stronger.

            He doesn’t say anything, Neal, just smiles down at him for a few moments before turning his eyes back to Emma.

            “He’s beautiful, Em.”

            “Thanks,” she manages. He hands Aidan back, then, shoving his hands into his pockets as soon as he’s no longer in his arms.

            She holds Aidan a little tighter, and he squirms a bit but doesn’t cry. (She might, though.)

            “Henry was this small?”

            She nods.

            He nods, too. Almost to himself. Looks down at his feet.

            “I’m sorry I missed it.”

            (And they’ve never really—never really talked about what happened, about his leaving. It was more— _why didn’t you tell me? How could you not tell me?_ And _how_ could _I—_ more about blaming and moving forward and Henry and coparenting than the past. He’s never apologized but she’s never asked him to. They’ve just studiously avoided the subject.)

            (But this—this is the closest they’ll ever get, she realizes. This is the most they’ll ever speak of it.)

            “Me, too.”

            He smiles sadly at her and she’s not going to be able to hold out much longer—she turns away and calls for Henry, who comes bounding down the hall.

            He hugs her tight and gives Aidan a kiss on the forehead before he goes, waving as he follows Neal out, saying “I will” to her “Be good”—

            And when Killian gets home twenty minutes later he can’t understand why she’s sobbing on the couch.

\---

            (When she says _Neal_ she’s sure he’s going to go murder him and she has to rush to explain—through her tears—that he didn’t do anything _wrong_. But she still doesn’t get to explain it all to him until that night—after she’s taken a shower and a nap and Aidan’s been fed and changed and they’ve eaten and Aidan’s fallen asleep.)

\---

            “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

            “Not really,” she responds, burying her face in his chest. He lets out a long breath and his grip on her tightens, and really, she’d like nothing more than to just fall asleep here—she feels warm and safe and loved and she’s so tired, and he probably is, too, and they _just_ got Aidan to sleep and she swears he’d been up for at least two hours, crying, but—

            She sighs.

            Because when’s the next chance they’ll have to talk about this?

            “It’s just—he was—he was asking about Henry. Was Henry this small, did Henry have blue eyes, did Henry look like him—and he held him, and—and he never got to hold Henry.”

            Killian doesn’t say anything.

            “And I just—” And she can feel herself tearing up again. “It just makes me really sad.”

            It feels stupid, saying it out loud, and maybe if she were better with words she’d find some other way to say it that sounded _less_ stupid, but Killian doesn’t laugh or tell her it’s dumb. He puts his hand under her chin and tilts her head up so she’s looking at him, eyes soft as they take her in.

            “You still wish he could’ve been there,” he says. She nods.

            “But it’s not—it’s not even because I wish we’d stayed together, you know? Because we wouldn’t have lasted. We were young and stupid and not great for each other, but I still—I wish he could’ve been there for Henry.”

            “And you.”

            She shrugs.

            “I guess.” She takes a deep breath. “We just missed out on so much.”

            He nods, frowning slightly. It’s the same expression she sees Aidan wear sometimes, and it makes her heart ache.

            She rests her hand on his cheek, traces her thumb over the scar there.

            “What are you thinking?”

            He doesn’t answer right away, blue eyes never leaving her face.

            “I guess I just don’t know what to say,” he says finally.

            “You don’t have to say anything.”

            “I know, but.” His fingers flex on her hip. “You were so upset. Are upset.”

            “It’ll pass.”

            “Yes but it—I still hate him for hurting you.”

            “I know.”

            “And for leaving you both.”

            “I know.”

            He bites his lip then, averts his eyes.

            “But—we wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.”

            This time she’s the one getting him to meet her eyes.

            “I know that, too.” She offers him a small smile, which he returns, and she continues. “I don’t—it’s not that I wish it was different, like I wish I could go back and change it—I mean, maybe part of me does, but it’s more—it’s not—I’m happy, Killian. Here, with you, and Aidan, and Henry—I’m glad it turned out like this. I don’t regret it.” His smile widens slightly. “It just reminded me of the way things weren’t, seeing him holding Aidan.”

            He nods.

            Tugs her closer, and she sighs into his chest, burrowing as close as she can as his arms tighten around her.

            “I love you,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her hair. “And I’m glad you’re happy because I am—so happy, here, with you.”

            She nods, eyes tearing up again (she is beyond ready for her hormones to level out, Jesus).

            “I love you, too.”

            They don’t say anything for a while, and at first she thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep but then he’s whispering:

            “Suppose we’ll manage to squeeze in one hour of sleep? Or two?”

            She snorts.

            “One if we’re lucky.”

            “Here’s hoping, then,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

            Not five minutes later they hear Aidan start crying on the monitor. Killian groans and she can’t help but laugh.

            (But seriously, can’t she just have an hour to cuddle with her—Killian?)

            (Boyfriend still seems so juvenile. Partner feels clinical. But what else is there?)

            “I’ll get him,” he volunteers, and she nearly groans at the loss of warmth when he gets up.

            He returns with Aidan, still crying, blue eyes shiny with tears, all bundled in his yellow duck pajamas and anchor blanket.

            He doesn’t need changing so she tries feeding him, but even then he still won’t settle, and so Killian tries swaddling him up tight (she’s not nearly as good at this as he is; two days ago she called him in tears because she couldn’t do it and Aidan wouldn’t stop crying and he came home from work early and showed her, and of _course_ Aidan fell asleep as soon as Killian wrapped him up, _of course_ he decided to be on his best behavior for his daddy), holding him to his chest and humming softly.

            He finally falls asleep— _finally_ —but Killian doesn’t get up to lay him down.

            “Go to sleep, love, I’ve got him,” he whispers, rubbing Aidan’s back. She’s too tired to argue so she does, she closes her eyes and she’s out almost instantly.

\---

            (And she swears he doesn’t put Aidan down all weekend, holding him and cooing at him and talking to him, and it makes her smile, heart so full it might burst, to see how Aidan watches him—how he’s started looking for him when he hears his voice across a room—and there’s still a twinge, there, because Henry never had this—

            But it’s getting better, somehow, and it’s good, this thing they have. Things are good.)

\---

            (And she does get a chance to cuddle with Killian a few nights later, and it is _everything_.)

\---

            Frankly, she’s tired of being cooped up in the house, and she thinks Aidan’s starting to go stir crazy, too. The last two weeks Ruby and Mary Margaret had come by the apartment for Wednesday lunch, but on Thursday she’s feeling bored and ready to be outside and so she bundles Aidan up (it’s not snowing, and it’s not _as_ cold as it’s been previously) and puts him in his car seat and decides to surprise Killian for lunch.

            (She texts Jefferson and tells him to get Killian to go to Granny’s. She figures that’s the best place to take Aidan—not terribly small or terribly busy or terribly loud.)

            Aidan gurgles to himself in the backseat—having a good day so far. He’d slept and ate earlier (not that he slept much last night, four hours he cried), and now he’s just making noises and kicking his feet against his seat. (He _loves_ being in the car. A few nights ago when he was still inconsolable by hour four Killian decided to try taking him on a drive, see if that didn’t soothe him. It did.)

            They get there before Killian does, and she takes a booth near the back (she doesn’t want Aidan to be around any more people than he has to). She has a clear view of the door, though, and so she sees exactly when he arrives (and greets Granny, and is told that there’s an open booth over there).

            Unfortunately, the group of women near her _also_ sees him when he arrives. And she’s not a jealous woman, really, but she feels it rise up fast in that moment.

            (She feels how stupid it is as soon as she sees his face once he’s caught sight of her, and it’s clear that he really does only have eyes for her.)

            “Funny running into you here,” she says with a smirk, and he doesn’t even respond, just kisses her soundly, and yeah, she’s not complaining. (She half wants to shoot a look at the ladies at the next table over, and it’s juvenile and ridiculous but he is _hers_ and she wants people to know that.)

            “I missed you,” he says softly, eyes twinkling, and he’s _ridiculous_ , it’s been five hours, but she’s the one who engineered this so maybe she’s not one to talk.

            “We did, too.”

            His grin widens, if possible, and he turns his attention to Aidan, whose eyes are flitting back and forth between them, fingers clenching and unclenching.

            “Hey there, little lad. Quite the adventure you’re having today, eh?”

            Aidan’s eyes focus on him, and then he _smiles_.

            (And she figured he would soon—this is around when Henry first smiled, too, but it’s still—it’s—)

            And Killian’s having a similar time of it, eyes meeting hers before turning back to Aidan, still grinning up at them, wriggling in his seat like he does. (He’s going to be _everywhere_ once he starts crawling and walking and—no, he won’t walk, he’ll progress straight to running, she’s sure. Running and tumbling and jumping just like Henry because Henry couldn’t just _walk_ , he had to jump or roll or somehow make it more exciting and this kid is shaping up to be the same.)

            Killian takes him out of his car seat and hugs him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead as he squirms and grunts—apparently _not_ wanting to be held so tight.

            “He’s never done that before, has he?” Killian asks, settling into the seat across from her, still holding Aidan (he’s not going to eat, she realizes, he’s going to hold Aidan and smile at them both and his food’s going to get cold, moron) (she loves him).

            “No, he hasn’t. Holding out on me, huh, kid?”

            Aidan smiles again, at her, this time, and she feels her heart melt.

            She takes out her phone to get a picture (she swears her phone is just pictures of Aidan now—Aidan with Killian take up more than half her photos) and Aidan’s still smiling when she snaps it, and that’s it, new background, screensaver, everything.

            (They have the same blue eyes and she is _done_.)

\---

            He walks her to the car when they’re finished (his food in a to go container so he can eat it later, with food for Jefferson and Smee in there, too), and the women from earlier are leaving as well, and it’s not _completely_ because of them that she kisses him but it’s part of the reason, and he smirks against her lips like he knows.

            “Staking a claim, Swan?” he teases.

            “Maybe,” she responds.

            “You needn’t worry yourself, love. My heart, as ever, is yours.”

            And she can’t _not_ melt when he says stuff like that, and he kisses her again, soft and slow, and then he pulls back and gives Aidan a kiss on his forehead, running a hand lightly over his hair. (He’d nodded off during lunch and she hopes he sleeps for a few hours at least, but you never know with this kid.)

            “Love you. See you at home,” he tells her.

            “Love you, too. Have a good rest of the day.”

            “I will.”

            He stands on the sidewalk and watches as they drive off, and she knows it’s stupid, knows he loves her, doesn’t care about anyone else, knows she doesn’t need to stake her claim—

            But, maybe she wants to, anyway.

\---

            (It’s just that _boyfriend_ and _partner_ both sound wrong, but _husband_ —well. That’s a title she could get on board with. Someday.)

\---

            Valentine’s day is coming up.

            She knows this because she’s at the grocery store with Henry. Aidan was up all night again, and no amount of swaddling or rocking or soft words would soothe him, and while he slept most of the day he’d started up again as Killian got home and she announced that _she_ would go to the store, and _he_ could stay with the baby. (Henry had decided to tag along, though whether that was so he could spend time with her or to get away from crying Aidan was anyone’s guess.)

            “Mom, can I get Valentine’s to take for my class?” he asks, and that’s when she realizes that it’s almost Valentine’s Day.

            Incidentally, so is the six week check up.

            Last time she went to a six week check up the doctor—not her normal one—told her that she was clear to resume sexual relations, and she’d laughed. She assumed it must be something they told everyone, but she was so far removed from a situation that would include sex that it had seemed like useless information.

            Now, though.

            Now her appointment falls just before Valentine’s Day.

            Funny coincidence, that.

            (She half thinks he won’t remember—not that she blames him, or is expecting anything. Aidan’s still colicky as ever, and while she may get to stay home still with him, nap when he does, Killian still has work everyday. Most nights when he gets home he’s exhausted, and he’ll take Aidan from her just to give her a break, but more often than not they’ll end up falling asleep on the couch, Aidan drooling onto Killian’s chest. And it’s adorable but it’s hard—she knows it’s as hard on him as it is on her.)

            But she lets Henry pick out a box of cards for his class, and gets a bag of candy to go along with it, and she picks up a card for Killian (in case he does remember, so she has something for him, too) (and when was the last time she even _had_ someone to celebrate this ridiculous day with?) (has she ever?) and God, she feels like she hasn’t left the apartment in days. It’s so strange to be wandering the aisles, getting cereal and boxes of mac and cheese and chips, knowing that she has a newborn at home who possibly _still_ hasn’t managed to cry himself to sleep yet, knowing that she hasn’t showered in something like three days. Henry tells her about school and she listens, she does, but there’s a second sort of awareness she has, trying to think of things like how many diapers do they have and will Aidan sleep tonight and—

            “Mom?”

            “Yeah, sorry, kid, I’m here.”

            Henry smiles patiently at her, and she pulls him into a hug, because she misses him and she knows this can’t be easy on him, either.

            “I _said_ , I wanna read Aidan another story tonight. If he’s still awake when we get home.”

            “I have a feeling he’ll still be awake.”

            Henry hugs her for a second before running down the aisle and grabbing a box of cookies.

            She lets him throw them in the cart.

\---

            (When they get home Killian is laying on the couch, asleep, with Aidan curled up on top of him in his pajamas with the hockey sticks. She manages to pick him up and set him down in his crib without either of them waking up, and she calls it a success.)

\---

            And she should probably be too tired. Honestly, she can’t even remember the last time she got a full night’s sleep—the last time she even slept through the night. Not only is Aidan up constantly, but he’s colicky. And he’s getting better—she and Killian are expert swaddlers at this point, and scheduling bath time later has helped, too (Killian also sings to him, now, and she can barely even handle it, heart feeling like it’s going to burst out of her chest, how did she manage to end up with someone like him)—but she still—they have a newborn and everything revolves around him and there’s Henry and it’s a little overwhelming and Killian is great, and so helpful, and she knows he’s tired, too, but—

            But she’s looking forward to the check up, she’s looking forward to getting cleared, she _wants_ to have sex with him again (because the last time they had sex was when Aidan was conceived and that feels like years ago) and it almost feels like she _shouldn’t_ , or something, because she _should_ be exhausted and totally focused on this kid and she is exhausted and focused on this kid, but—

            But she loves Killian, too. And she _wants_ to be with him—not even necessarily just in terms of sex. She misses—she misses just getting to be with him, watching TV on the couch or lying in bed talking, just those soft, quiet moments they used to have. Now they’re either interrupted by Henry or Aidan, or one of them is falling asleep. She just wants a few hours—just a little bit of time to be with him. No kids, no distractions, just them.

            And it feels like a sign when Neal texts her _I’m gonna pick up Henry from school, I’ll keep him for the night_ the day of her appointment, and she makes a quick decision and then is texting Mary Margaret.

            _Do you and David wanna babysit Aidan for a few hours tonight?_

            (Mary Margaret calls within seconds, asking if everything’s okay, is she sure, what do they need, what time—)

            And so she heads to the doctor’s office, Aidan in tow (with his diaper bag packed full of diapers and wipes and three extra sets of clothes and four extra blankets, lotion and powder and pacifiers and bottles of milk she’s pumped and it’s such a production taking him anywhere, much less leaving him with other people), and everything is fine—Aidan’s progressing normally—and the doctor spends some time with her, asking questions and doing checks, and then—

            “And you’re good to go to resume sexual relations.”

            And she’s ready.

\---

            (She’d thought about cooking dinner or something—going all out to mark the occasion. In the end she just showers and buys a box of condoms and texts him that he doesn’t need to pick up Henry.)

\---

            And she feels strangely _nervous_ when she hears his key in the lock—which is ridiculous, probably—but it melts away when she sees him.

            (Mostly.)

            “Hello, love,” he says with a soft smile as he walks in, closing and locking the door behind him. He toes off his shoes and wanders over to her, giving her a quick kiss before moving away again. “Where’s Henry?”

            “With Neal for the night.”

            He nods, wandering to the table and flipping through the mail.

            “Aidan’s asleep?”

            She shakes her head. He frowns.

            “Then—”

            “He’s with Mary Margaret and David.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I figured we could use a break.”

            “Oh.” He tilts his head. “Is everything okay?”

            “Yeah, everything’s fine. Went to the doctor’s today, too.”

            He blinks but otherwise doesn’t respond.

            “Six week check up?”

            He nods, expression blank.

            “Really? You know six ways to swaddle a baby but not what the six week check up is?”

            “Well, to be fair—”

            “Sex! The six week check up is when they clear you for sex. Which I was. Today.”

            “Oh.”

            He still doesn’t move. She feels herself deflate, suddenly feeling embarrassed and dumb. She shouldn’t have—maybe she shouldn’t have assumed he’d—

            She fights down the feeling spreading through her—it feels distinctly like rejection—and gets up.

            “Nevermind, I’m gonna go take a nap before I have to go pick him up.”

            “Wait, Emma—”

            “No, forget it. It’s fine.”

            He takes a step like he means to stop her but she doesn’t give him a second glance, just disappears down the hall to their bedroom, and she feels like crying and it’s ridiculous, but she just—

            She hadn’t really considered this. Had figured—had figured this would be the easy part. They’re already—they have a child together, they live together, they’d done _some_ stuff before Aidan was born, not—had rounded the bases even if they hadn’t quite made it home yet, but—

            She’s barely laid down when he comes in, but she keeps her back to him—is afraid to face him, almost. (She’d never considered that he might possibly not _want_ her like this anymore.) The bed shifts as he sits, and then—

            “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

            “I told you, it’s fine,” she says, and she’s proud of how little her voice shakes.

            (Maybe it’ll just take time. Maybe a few more weeks, or—)

            “The books said it would be weeks—months, even—before you might want to, so I figured—” He pauses. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured and I was surprised and I’m sorry if it seemed like disinterest.”

            She doesn’t respond, and he sighs.

            “Emma.”

            (What, did he think she wouldn’t want _him_ , or something?)

            “Do you want me to leave you alone now?” he asks softly. She huffs out a breath and rolls onto her back, staring up at him.

            “Have we not established that I want to be with you? No, I don’t want you to leave.” He cracks a small smile and she sighs. “Can we at least cuddle? I just—I miss you.”

            His expression goes tender and he smiles, properly, at her, and _God_ —

            “I miss you, too.”

            And with that he flops onto the bed, pulling the covers up over them and tugging her toward him. She hums in contentment.

            “For the record,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “I’m not uninterested. I’m as interested as you want me to be.”

            “Nice save,” she teases. He chuckles, and she presses a kiss to his chest. He lifts her head and smiles at her before leaning down and catching her lips in a proper kiss, and she lets herself melt into it. He’s warm (how is he always so warm?) and he tastes like coffee and she shivers as his hands slide up under her shirt. She breaks away for a moment to look at him, hair messy where she’s been running her fingers through it, cheeks flushed.

Still in his work clothes.

(He smells faintly of salt and grease and she loves him.)

“Are you sure you wanna be wearing your work clothes still? Isn’t that a little uncomfortable?”

            He smirks, sitting up to remove his work shirt and shuck his pants. Then he’s kissing her again and she sighs, running her hands over his chest, over his undershirt, before tugging that off him, too. By then he’s fingering the hem of her sweatshirt, having figured out that she’s not wearing a shirt or anything underneath it.

            “Are you sure about this sweatshirt, Swan? It’s a bit warm in here.”

            She rolls her eyes at him before taking it off, and he’s full on grinning now, eyes dancing.

            “You’re ridiculous,” she tells him.

            “You love me.”

            “Yeah, I do.” And his smile is so wide and bright and happy and she can’t, she can’t deal with all these feelings, all this love she has for him—for this man who takes care her and loves her kid and sings their son to sleep, that she met on _accident_ at a _bar_ —

            And she’s probably going to start crying soon or something, _fuck_ , they need to just—

            “Can we just get on with this, now, please?” she says. He laughs.

            “ _Get on with it_ , honestly, Swan, is this any way to woo—”

            “Shut up, Killian.”

            She kisses him, then, toes curling as he deepens it, fingers finding their way to his hair as he rolls her onto her back.

\---

            (Neither of them says much after that.)

\---

            “It’s almost Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?”

            “I think so.”

            “Hmm. Suppose we can consider this our celebration?”

            “I was planning on it.”

            “Good.”

            She nods, feeling herself start to drift off as she shifts closer to him.

            “Can we squeeze in a nap before we go collect Aidan?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Okay.”

            He leans away for a moment—probably setting an alarm—before gathering her close again, pulling the blankets up around them.

            “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

\---

            (She sleeps through the alarm and when she wakes up she’s alone in bed, the TV in the living room playing softly. Killian’s there with Aidan, who’s asleep, luckily, and so she joins her boys on the couch, leaning against Killian and watching Aidan sleep.)

\---

            They spend Valentine’s Day at the apartment, ordering take out and watching movies with Henry. Killian sent her flowers and a card that made her cry earlier that morning, and she gives him the card she picked up later that night, and of course Aidan wakes up just as things are getting good, but that’s life now, she supposes.

\---

            (Life’s pretty great.) 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: So, this is the end. (Well, there’s an epilogue. Look for that soon, too.) It’s been really cool and fun and you guys are all really awesome. Seriously, I never expected to get the kind of response this fic has gotten, so thank you for reading and messaging me and enjoying this. Your enjoyment has given me joy, so thank you. I know I suck at responding to messages, but truly, I have read and appreciated them all. Thank you for your kind words. I hope you enjoy this last one. (Well, mostly last one.)

**twenty-four.**

            It’s—it’s something, fatherhood.

            Something like awe and exhaustion and unexpected and terrifying—

            And he’ll never tell Emma this, she’d tease him about it forever, but half of why he enjoys the photos she sends him when he’s at work (aside form the obvious reasons—that is, getting to see her, and Aidan) is that it’s proof that they’re okay, that there hasn’t been some sort of freak accident or fire, that he hasn’t lost them.

            Because he feels like he’s lost everyone who’s meant something to him, everyone he’s loved deeply. Just gone. And he doesn’t think he could recover, if he should lose any of them—but the fear is stronger, deeper, with Aidan. Because he’s just so small. So small and wonderful and defenseless—and he’s read about SIDS and he can’t—

            (Sometimes when he leaves for work, when Aidan’s magically still asleep, he’ll go in and check on him. Make sure he’s still alive and breathing. Press a kiss to his forehead before he goes.)

            (Some days he feels like he doesn’t breathe properly until he gets a photo from Emma, Aidan smiling or sleeping or pulling some sort of face.)

\---

            (He doesn’t imagine the fear will ever go away, completely, but it gets easier, as the weeks pass. As Aidan starts growing.)

\---

            So it’s jarring, to say the least, when he gets home from work and not only is Henry gone, but Emma tells him Aidan is, too.

            Off with David and Mary Margaret.

            (He half wants to call to check on him right then, make sure he’s okay.)

            And then she’s going on about appointments—and he remembers that they’d had one today—and six weeks (and Aidan’s six weeks already? bloody hell, soon he’ll be walking and talking and—)

            “Really? You know six ways to swaddle a baby but not what the six week check up is?” she snaps, and he’s—he’s a bit lost, honestly, and then it hits him—

            “Sex!” she all but shouts, and it slams him in the gut (not necessarily in a bad way). “The six week check up is when they clear you for sex. Which I was. Today.”

            And he feels like he needs to change gears, very quickly—still not entirely convinced that he _shouldn’t_ call to make sure Aidan’s okay—but Emma is here and they’re alone, because Henry’s gone and Aidan’s gone, and—

            “Oh.”

            He’d not expected this when he walked through the door.

            (He’d not expected this for quite some time, honestly. Because the books had said—weeks, _months_ , possibly, until she’d want to, and—)

            And he can see her face fall and then she’s getting up and _leaving_ and he’s fucked this up, he didn’t—

            And should he even go after her?

            (Yes, of course he should.)

            So he does, and she won’t even look at him, and—

            And _of course_ he wants her, of course he wants this, he just—he just wasn’t expecting it. And he’d been so careful not to—

            Earlier, when they’d first started this thing between them, those tentative first steps—kisses and hugs and getting to stay the night—he’d been so careful not to push her, afraid that if they went too fast she’d get scared and run again.

            And of course he wanted her, but he wanted—he wanted it to be her choice.

            And now it’s come off, not as concern for her, not as a consideration of her feelings, but as disinterest. Now she thinks he doesn’t want her like that.

            _Fuck_.

            “Do you want me to leave you alone now?” he asks softly.

(He doesn’t want to leave.)

(Luckily, she doesn’t want him to, either, and, in the end, they _do_ take advantage of a kid-less house, and it’s different than the first time, of course it is—

But it’s better, too. It’s more, and it feels like—

The first time it was just some casual thing—no stakes. But with everything else, and as they got closer, it reached a point where it wouldn’t just be casual sex among strangers anymore. Because they weren’t strangers, and the things between them went too deep.

And he knows she trusts him. She loves him—she’s told him she loves him—they live together—because she asked him to—they have Aidan, and Henry—he knows she’s in this for the long haul. He knows this.

But it’s like that final step, or something. Not only has she invited him into her life, but into this intimacy, too.)

\---

            “I love you,” he tells her as he gathers her closer. She sighs softly, nuzzling into him.

            “I love you, too.”

            (He’s glad not to have fucked it up, to say the least.)

\---

While he’d gone to almost all of the doctor’s appointments while Emma was pregnant, since she’d given birth he’d missed all but the first few. (She’d insisted he didn’t need to come, that he probably shouldn’t take so much time off work, and he’d grudgingly agreed.)

            This one, though, she’d made _sure_ he could go to, so he took the whole day off.

            (And, really, he wants the excuse to stay home with them.)

            But today is vaccine day.

\---

            (As expected, Aidan does _not_ appreciate shots, and Killian can’t imagine there are many things worse than seeing your child in pain and being unable to help. He understands, then, why Emma had been so insistent that he be here. Luckily, Aidan falls asleep in the car—cried himself out, it would seem—and he stays asleep even after they’ve gotten home.

That’s when they curl up in bed and Emma tells him—haltingly, at first—about Henry as a baby. About those first weeks and months. Ear infections and fevers and sitting up with him when he had the flu. That time he got pneumonia and she had to take him to the hospital, stayed there with him for four days, so scared because he was so sick.

And she was so alone.

“Thanks for coming with us today,” she says, after Aidan’s woken up and she’s brought him back to bed with her, feeding him as Killian sits beside them.

“Of course.” He smiles softly. “We’re a team, now, remember?”)

\---

            And it’s getting easier, getting—getting normal again. Or, he’s starting to adjust to this new normal that is his life now. That is, having a son and a stepson and a—well, Emma. Aidan’s not quite so colicky anymore (though he still wraps him up tight in his blankets, and sometimes he’ll take him for drives anyway) and he’s sleeping more at night (thank God), and Killian’s gotten better at the whole changing diapers thing.

            It’s funny, because before Aidan he’d never spent any length of time around children, much less infants, but now he feels like he’s surrounded by them, and like he can’t go anywhere without seeing them. And he thinks—he thinks he’s adjusted fairly well. Emma’d had to teach him a lot, but he does his best, and Aidan seems to respond, and really, there’s nothing quite like having him fall asleep on your chest, feeling his little breath against your neck—or that moment when he’s fussing and you’re trying to get him to calm down and he _does_.

            (There’s nothing quite like getting home and seeing them and hearing Emma say, “Look, Daddy’s home.”)

            ( _Daddy_.)

\---

            One day David and Mary Margaret offer to watch the boys ( _the boys_ ) for them so they can have a date. So they drop them off (along with a port-a-crib for Aidan, and several of his stuffed animals, and extra changes of clothes, and practically an entire box of diapers, and David teases him and Emma does a bit, too, but there’s a lot that goes into the care of an infant, and he _will not_ have the night interrupted because they’d somehow forgotten something.)

            He’d asked if she wanted to have a proper, fancy sort of date—dressing up and going out to an early dinner—but she’d started work again recently and said no, just a quiet night at home, and so they stop and get a movie (which, naturally, takes nearly twenty minutes) and then go home to cook dinner.

            And it’s a bit like that night all those months ago, except he’s making her dinner in the home they share, and he can kiss her whenever he feels like it (and he _does_ ), and instead of discussing what they’ll name their son, they’re discussing their _actual_ son.

            (They don’t end up finishing their movie—there are far better ways to take advantage of an empty apartment and uninterrupted time, after all.)

            Still, the night ends with picking up the boys, giving Aidan his bath and then rocking him to sleep. Sometimes they read him a story; sometimes he’ll sing to him. (He’s read about the importance of bedtime rituals; he’s also read about how skin to skin contact helps with bonding, especially for fathers, which is why he likes to handle bath time. Emma has yet to complain about his shirtlessness.)

\---

            He signs up for the hockey league again. David and Robin encouraged him to do it, and Emma even had, too.

            (Though, he promised he’d keep the going out with the guys afterwards to a minimum.)

            He ends up bringing Henry with him more often than not—they’d missed signing him up to play last season (what with the pregnancy and the move and everything) but he’s eager to play this year, so Killian brings him along and sometimes they’ll stay after and he’ll show him better how to skate and stop, even letting him try making a few goals. (But he’s only got his hockey stick, which is nowhere near the size Henry would need, and he resolves to get him one of his own—Easter, perhaps?)

            Emma and Aidan come to a game one night, though Aidan’s being especially fussy that day so they don’t stay, and he never had anyone in the stands to root for him, before, but now he has _people_ , and the feeling it gives him is indescribable.

            “Sorry we didn’t stay,” Emma tells him that night.

            “It’s fine, love.”

            “It was too cold for him, I think.”

            “Truly, I understand.” He tugs her closer. He can’t seem to stop touching her these days, either. She makes comments sometimes about how she’s not losing the baby weight as fast as she’d like—not that she’d gained much to begin with, he thinks—and in those moments he remembers that he didn’t know her before Aidan, has really only ever seen her pregnant—and maybe that’s part of it. His way of reassuring her that she is beautiful and he wants her, always. “It was nice having you there at all.”

            She runs her hand over his face, smiling like she gets it.

            “Next year we’ll probably make it through a whole game.”

            He smiles.

            “I’m looking forward to it.”

 ---

            It’s not until David invites them over for dinner—just a small gathering of friends at his and Mary Margaret’s apartment to celebrate his birthday—that Killian realizes it’s been a year.

            _A year_.

            Well, nearly a year. If pressed he’s not sure he could remember the exact date without looking it up on a calendar, but the point remains—he and Emma met at David’s birthday party at that bar last year. A game of darts, which led to conversation—and he was nervous, almost, he remembers—he remembers being so taken with her right away, intrigued—he remembers he made her smile and he remembers wanting to see it again—remembers trying to subtly inch his bar stool closer once they’d gone to get drinks, remembers flirting, remembers catching a whiff of her perfume, the way the lights in the bar made her eyes look—

            He’d invited her in for coffee half expecting her to say no. Had hoped—

            And then—

            But then she left, and he was sure he’d ruined his chance. Had hoped she’d call, but didn’t really think she would. He was never one for hope, especially not these past years. But he still—she said _one time thing_ and he couldn’t help but fight it, couldn’t help _trying_ —

            It was a last ditch effort, giving her his number.

            (“ _In case you change your mind,”_ he’d told her.)

            (“ _Humor me,_ ” he’d said.)

            And here they are, a year later.

            He wonders if she would’ve told him still, had he not put his number in her phone. If she’d have made the effort to reach him through David, or if she’d’ve just—

Wonders how different things might have been had he _not_ woken up to see her leaving, had he not asked her to stay—had he accepted her “I can’t do this” and let her go. He didn’t go after her, it’s true. But he didn’t hide that he wanted to be with her, either.

(He always fell hard and fast.)

It’s just that a year ago he never would’ve imagined that this could be his life, but now that it is he doesn’t know how he could’ve got on without them. And the reasons they’re here—

(“ _What are you boys playing?”_

_“Robin is currently kicking both our asses at darts.”_

_“What can I say, marksmanship is my true calling.”_

_“You’re Robin, I take it.”_

_“That I am. And you are?”_

_“Right. Guys, this is Emma, an old friend of ours. Emma, this is Robin, and Killian. We play hockey together down at the rec center.”_

_“I assure you that Locksley’s aim is far less true on the ice.”_

_“Oi!”_

_“Mind if I join in?”_

_“You can take my place; I think Kris just got here, I wanna go say hi.”_

_“Are you good at this game, Emma?”_

_“Decent enough.”_

_“Would you like a few pointers?”_

_“Is this the part where you stand really close and ‘show’ me how to throw a dart?”_

_“I’m just saying, I would be happy to offer my services.”_

_“I think I’ll manage just fine without them.”_

_“Well, then. Ladies first.”_

_“What a gentleman.”_

_“I’m_ always _a gentleman.”)_

\---

            He supposes he owes David the greatest birthday present he can think of.

\---

            “What’s this?” Emma asks, taking the flowers he gives her and bringing them up to her nose.

            “A man can’t give flowers to the woman he loves?”

            She rolls her eyes fondly.

            “A man _can_. Just wondering if there’s something I’m missing here.”

            He puts his hands on her waist and tugs her closer, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

            “I suppose you could say, it’s an anniversary gift.”

            She raises an eyebrow.

            “After all,” he continues, “It _was_ David’s birthday when we first met. When we first kissed.” He kisses her again. “If you really think about it, we have David to thank for Aidan.”

            “I’m sure he’d _love_ to hear that.”

            He grins.

            “Happy anniversary, Swan.”

“Happy anniversary, Killian,” she says softly. “But don’t forget the part where I beat you at darts.”

“I let you win.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I did!”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

He opens his mouth to protest but she kisses him quiet, and they have a few blissful moments in the kitchen of their apartment before Aidan starts crying.

(He wouldn’t trade it for anything.)

\---

            One night he stays up with Aidan, ends up sitting in the rocking chair in his room with him, talking to him.

            He tells him about being in the Navy, tells him about growing up in London and then New York, tells him about Tink and Aunt Shaye—

            Tells him about Liam.

            And he’s barely even three months—all he’s doing is staring up at him, cooing and gurgling every so often, reaching up and playing with Killian’s necklace, running his little hands along his scruff (he’s all about textures these days, wants to touch everything—that is, when he’s not fascinated to distraction by his own hands)—but it’s important, still, somehow. To rock him and hold him and tell him about where he comes from. To look at him watching _him_ , to hold him and feel the weight of everything, of a lifetime of choices and events that have led to this, to watch his eyes flutter closed and feel his baby soft skin, his fair hair, his eyes that are like his and his nose that is like Emma’s and his ears that are like Liam’s—this little boy who is a mix of all of them, who is _his_ , forever and always.

            He stays and watches him sleep for a while before going back to bed, curling around Emma as she sleeps, and she turns and presses closer to him without waking up and his heart feels like it could burst with how full it feels—like all he can do is take deep breaths and hold them because it is _good_ and _right,_ and he is _happy_ —

            And he misses Liam still, always will. Milah, too. Loving Emma doesn’t mean he didn’t love her, because he did. Loving her—loving both of them, all of them, the mother he lost and the father he doesn’t remember—

            He hasn’t stopped living, is the thing. He hasn’t died with them, hasn’t left himself to rot in a lonely, miserable existence full of nothing _but_ remembering. He did, for a bit, but now—

            It’s not just a family he’s got, it’s not just love. It’s a future. It’s something to look forward to.

            It’s a life.

\---

            “So, what do you want to do for your birthday?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Come on.”

            “I’m serious. I have no wishes. Everything I could possibly want is right here.”

            She rolls her eyes at him. (She does it so often he fears her eyes may one day roll right out of her head, and he told her this once and all she’d said was _stop giving me a reason to, then_.)

            “Remember how I almost didn’t tell you it was my birthday.”

            “You didn’t at all, remember?”

            “The point is, you reminded me that not celebrating is dumb. Because the people who love me wanted to celebrate me, because they think I’m worth that. And I think you’re worth that, too. So, what do you want to do for your birthday?”

            He smiles.

            “Surprise me, love.”

\---

            She says nothing more on the subject (he’d told her no party a few days after they’d first spoken of it; said whatever she planned, he just wanted it to be their little family), and he half thinks that perhaps she forgot, or something. It would be understandable; life is hectic with a ten year old (almost eleven, as he keeps reminding them) and a baby and both of them working. His birthday falls on a Saturday this year, and he expects maybe dinner, maybe a movie. Maybe they’ll all go to the zoo or something; that seems like the kind of outing families do. But she doesn’t offer any information and he doesn’t ask.

            The night before they put Aidan to bed and he carries Henry to his room after he falls asleep on the couch, and they’re rewarded with a whole two hours to themselves before Aidan’s up again, and just before he falls asleep he catches the clock—2:05—and for the first time in a long time he isn’t alone on his birthday.

\---

            When Aidan wakes the next morning Emma gets up and tells him to go back to sleep; she’ll take care of him. And then she kisses him and whispers happy birthday, and he’s tired enough that he drifts off again without a word.

\---

            He wakes to whispering in the hall.

            “Can I wake him up?”

            “Yes, but don’t yell. Be nice about it.”

            “Can I jump on the bed?”

            “ _No_ , you might drop—”

            Aidan makes his presence known with a loud _ah_. He hears the door open slowly but keeps his eyes closed.

            “Killian,” Henry says softly. Killian bites back a smile. “Killian,” he says, a bit louder this time. He turns over to face them, then, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and sitting up to take them in.

            Henry’s wearing a party hat; Aidan’s wearing a onesie that reads _Handsome Like Daddy_ —and they’re holding a birthday cake.

            (Well, Henry is holding the cake and Emma is holding Aidan, and Aidan is smiling happily at him.)

            “Happy birthday!” Henry exclaims. Aidan makes an excited noise. Killian can’t help his grin this time. “We made you a cake! Well, Mom made it, and I kept Aidan from crying and waking you up, but I got you a card, too.”

            “Thank you,” he says. “Birthday cake for breakfast, Emma?”

            “Can I have birthday cake for breakfast on my birthday?”

            “Maybe when you’re twelve,” Emma says. Henry groans at the unfairness of it.

            “Why does this cake say I’m turning 300?” Killian asks then.

            “Because I don’t know how old you really are, and those were the only numbers we had, and Mom said if we put more than twenty candles on the cake we’d probably burn the house down.”

            “Perhaps not the best way to start the day.”

            “Yeah.”

            He can’t stop smiling, seeing them all, and he takes a proper look at his cake. Chocolate frosting, _Happy Birthday!_ in blue icing, and his heart stutters a bit and—

            “What kind of cake is this, Emma?” he asks suddenly.

            “Chocolate, with chocolate frosting and strawberry filling,” Henry supplies.

            He sucks in a breath.

            “Mom said that’s your favorite.”

            “Yeah. It is.”

            (He can’t remember the last time someone made him a birthday cake.)

            (Except he can.)

            (His twelfth birthday. She was too sick to do much of anything when he turned thirteen; died not a month later.)

            (And he’d told Emma, and she—)

            “Do you want to try it?” Henry asks. Killian nods, unable to speak, and Henry sits down on the bed next to him, hands him the cake as Emma hands them both forks.

            “Figured this was easier than cutting it and getting plates,” she says softly, and she’s watching him carefully, he can tell. Trying to gauge his reaction, probably. He smiles at her, too overwhelmed to do much of anything else.

            “Definitely,” he responds, voice rougher than he’d meant it, and she smiles back.

            He takes the first bite.

            “It’s not—obviously it’s not the same recipe, I found this one online and it had good reviews, and—”

            “Emma. It’s perfect.” He smiles at her, feeling the tears build in his eyes, and he turns his attention to Henry again. “Have some, lad.”

            Henry doesn’t need telling twice, and as he takes a forkful Killian reaches for Emma’s hand, tugs her toward him and scoots over so she can sit down beside him.

            “Wait!” Henry says suddenly, icing on his lip, fork in hand.

            “What is it, lad?” Killian asks, taking another bite. (Because it _is_ good cake, and it _is_ his favorite.)

            “We forgot to sing _Happy Birthday_! And light the candles!”

            “Maybe we shouldn’t light any candles here on the bed, kid.”

            “But it’s tradition!”

            “Tell you what. How about we sit here and eat _this_ cake, and later we can go out to eat and then when they bring out another cake you can sing to me then, and I can blow out those candles?”

            “Okay. I guess that works, too.”

            “Okay,” Killian says with a smile.

            “Can I give you my card now?”

            “Of course.”

            Henry sticks his fork in the cake and runs off. Killian turns toward Emma, who’s still watching him gently.

“I love you,” he whispers, leaning in and kissing her softly.

            “I love you, too,” she says in much the same tone. “Happy birthday.”

            Aidan grabs for the cake, then, and Killian laughs.

            “And I love you, little one,” he says, kissing him on the cheek and tickling his stomach. He’s rewarded with a laugh—and it’s one of his favorite sounds in the world, Aidan’s laugh.

            Henry returns with a card and a small wrapped package, handing them over shyly, tips of his ears going pink.  

            ( _Dear Killian, Happy Birthday! I hope you have a really good day. Thanks for getting me ice cream and teaching me to play hockey and for making my mom happy. And Aidan, I guess. I think you’re really cool and I’m glad you’re part of our family now and I hope your birthday is fun. Love, Henry._ )

            (Inside the package is a New York Rangers beanie.)

            He’s fighting back tears as he hugs Henry.

            “Thank you, lad.”

            “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.”

            “I love it.”

            Henry beams up at him.

\---

            They eat the whole cake by themselves, lounging about in pajamas watching TV all day, and then later Emma wrangles them into getting ready to go out to dinner—where they coincidentally run into all their friends.

            (“I thought I said _not_ a party?”)

            (“What you said was ‘surprise me.’ And see how surprised you are.”)

            (“Swan.”)

            (“They want to celebrate with you, too. And you got to spend the whole day with just us.” She kisses him. “Be nice.”)

            And he _is_ nice—the whole evening is nice, and fun, and when the wait staff comes out with a cake (and candles), and they all start singing (another thing that hasn’t happened in quite some time), Henry tells him:

            “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

            But sitting there, with Emma and Aidan and Henry, with her friends and his friends—with more people that are his people than he’s had possibly ever in his life—

            What more could he wish for?


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this it. The real end. Again, thank you to all for reading and commenting. You're all awesome.

**epilogue.**

            “Now remember, Aidan, the baby might be sleeping, so we have to be quiet, okay?”

            “Okay, Daddy.”

            His blue eyes are serious as he nods, clutching a stuffed bear and wearing his new “Big Brother” t-shirt.

            (Henry has declared himself too old for such things, so his t-shirt is sitting on his dresser at home.)

            (Nevertheless, he’s smiling as widely as he did when Aidan was born and he first went to meet him. Some things never change, it seems.)

            Killian opens the door slowly, eyes finding Emma’s immediately. She smiles at him, and his heart stutters. (Even after all this time.)

            “Mama!” Aidan cries, squirming in Killian’s arms.

            “Quiet, remember, Aidan?”

            Aidan looks at him then. Nods.

            “Shhh.” Aidan brings his finger to his mouth, demonstrating. Killian smiles. He takes him over to the bed and sets him down on the edge. He doesn’t remain there long, though, crawling up to hug Emma and curl into her side as soon as Killian sets him down.

            “Hi, sweetie,” she says, pressing a kiss to his hair.

            “Baby?” he asks, pointing to the bundle in Emma’s arms.

            “Yeah. This is your little sister.”

            “Hi baby,” he says in a soft, quiet voice, reaching out his little hand to touch her face.

            “Gentle, Aidan,” Killian reminds him.

            “He’s fine,” Emma says softly as she watches him. Killian can’t help but smile, too. Aidan grins as his hand makes contact, pulling away when she turns her eyes to look at him.

            “Can I hold her, Mom?” Henry asks.

            “Of course.”

            She carefully hands the baby off to Henry, whose expression has also softened (but lost none of its joy), then wraps her arms around Aidan.

            “Miss you, Mama.”

            “I missed you, too,” she says. “But did you have fun with Auntie Mary Margaret and Uncle David and little Leo?”

            He nods.

            “Home tonight?”

            “Not tonight, sweetie. Tomorrow.”

            He sighs heavily.

            “Okay.”

            “Did you have lunch with Daddy?”

            He nods again.

            “And go to the park.”

            “Was it fun?”

            He nods a third time.

            “We went on swings.”

            “Did Daddy push you really high?”

            “ _Yeah_. Really high.”

            “She looks like Aidan did when he was born,” Henry comments, looking up at them and grinning. (He’s growing like a weed these days, voice getting deeper, too, and sometimes Killian forgets he’s starting high school next year—still sees the little boy he’d carry to bed when he fell asleep in the car or on the couch.)

            “She looks like you,” Emma tells him. “All that dark hair.”

            Henry beams.

            “I wanna hold her,” Aidan declares.

            Killian and Emma exchange glances.

            “Okay. But you have to be really careful, okay?” Emma tells him. He nods solemnly again.

            “I know, Mama.”

            Killian takes the baby from Henry and slowly places her in Aidan’s lap. Emma’s got her arm around him, supporting him, and Killian knows he has no reason to be nervous but Emma called it right the first time. He is the one of the two of them to panic over a slight fever and rush to their side at the first sign of injury.

            (“Little boys get scrapes and bruises.”)

            (“He’s going to hurt himself.”)

            (“He’ll be fine.”)

            (He’s usually fine.)

            But little girls are different.

            (He doesn’t doubt that his daughter will be just as rough and tumble as his son, but _bloody hell_ , he has a _daughter_.)

            He watches as Aidan looks down at his little sister, something like awe on his face, babbling quietly at her while she just looks at him, eyes wide.

            “Baby’s coming home too?” Aidan asks.

            “Yes, lad. Izzie’s coming home with us when Mama comes home,” Killian tells him.

            “Good,” Aidan says. “I wanna keep her.”

            “That’s good,” Emma says with a laugh.

            Killian steps toward them and takes Izzie—gently—from Aidan, who looks like he’s tiring of holding her now.

            (He also just wants to hold his daughter.)

            “Hey there, sweetheart,” he murmurs, smiling down at her. She regards him seriously, bright blue eyes like Aidan’s but with none of his fair hair. She’s got dark hair like him—and it’s true, he thinks he can see some of Henry in her. “Ready to come home soon?” She just stares up at him and oh, how he loves her already.

            “Mama I’m hungry,” Aidan announces.

            “We don’t have any food in here.”

            “Want me to go look for a vending machine?” Henry offers.

            “Are you sure?”

            He nods.

            “Wanna come, Aidan?”

            “Come back again?”

            “Yeah, we’ll come back after we get a snack,” Henry assures him. It makes Killian smile, seeing how much Henry’s grown, how well he’s slipped into the older brother role—looking out for him and reading to him and even playing with him sometimes. Not that he’s perfect—he’s still a 13 year old boy, after all—but it makes his heart swell to see these tangible moments, this proof that they love each other. His sons.

            (And now he has a _daughter_.)

            Aidan nods, climbing off the bed. Killian pulls out his wallet and digs out a few dollars to give them.

            “Stay with your brother,” he tells Aidan.

            “I will, Daddy.”

            “You guys want anything?”

            “No, we’re good,” Emma answers. Henry nods and then takes Aidan’s hand, the two of them heading off into the hall.

            “Those are your big brothers,” Killian tells Izzie. She blinks up at him.

            He blinks back.

            “I’m surprised she’s awake,” he says, looking over at Emma again. She looks exhausted, but her smile is soft and happy as she watches them, leaning back against her pillows.

            “Think she was waiting to see daddy again.”

            He grins, looking back down at the little bundle in his arms, and he swears his heart’s never been so full.

\---

            Emma smiles to herself as she watches Killian with the baby. (He’d been so excited when they found out they were having a girl, and she swears he hasn’t stopped smiling at her since she was born.)

            And it was strange, a bit, to have a _planned_ baby. Henry and Aidan were both accidents—happy ones, ones she wouldn’t trade for anything—but it was definitely different, talking about another baby and then deciding to try and then _hoping_ and then—

            And then another pregnancy test, Killian at her side, just like last time, only this time they meant to do this, and this time he’s her husband.

            (Two years later and it’s still strange to call him that. Still sends a thrill through her when she hears him refer to her as his wife—to see his wedding ring or be called Mrs. Jones.)            

            When Henry was growing up she sort of—she figured she would be done, after him. That he was it for her, and once he outgrew diapers and bedtime stories, once he no longer needed her to check under the bed for monsters—she figured she wouldn’t have to do it again. But Aidan was like starting over (though, as predicted, Killian has taken over in the checking for monsters department) and now, with this new one—it’s like Aidan marked the beginning of a new era. Now her life is Sesame Street and pacifiers and sticky hands and apple juice and not sleeping through the night and toys that are obnoxiously loud. And it’s only going to continue, because even as Aidan outgrows those things, Izzie will grow into them.

            (She thinks they’re done now. She doesn’t think they’ll have another one. Three’s a good number.)

            But a little girl. She’s so used to boys now. Having a daughter—

            (And Killian’s already gone for her, completely adores her, and she has to say, she does, too.)

            When Henry gets back with Aidan, a bag of chips _and_ a pack of candy, she can’t help but smile. At her son who’s growing up so freaking fast (high school next year?) and her little boy who’s not quite so little any more (as he tries to climb up onto the bed by himself, stubbornly resisting help from Henry and Killian because _I can do it myself, Daddy_ ), her husband with his sparkling eyes and their pediatrician on speed dial—

            And now, her daughter. (Who will absolutely be a daddy’s girl, Emma calls it now.)

            This was hardly the plan she had for her life. (Not that she had much of a plan to begin with.) And pretty much everyone in this room with her was an accident, someone she never saw coming.

            Except Izzie, who is the result of a bunch of missteps and accidents working out better than she ever could’ve hoped, bundled in purple and nestled safely in her father’s arms as her brothers coo at her.

            So, maybe it isn’t what she thought her life would be like. Maybe none of it was planned. But there’s something to be said about things working themselves out, about happy endings.

            Maybe it wasn’t a neat path from point A to B, but they got there, and that’s the point of these stories, isn’t it? 

            (But, honestly? She wouldn’t want it any other way.)


End file.
